Skipping the Angles
by T'Pring
Summary: Sheppard and Team land on a violent planet and find themselves caught up in the local Clan's battle for leadership. John is injured, friends are not what they seem, and the jumper won't be back for twelve more hours. Cue action, knives, and thugs.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This was written for the LJ Sheppard H/C Secret Santa challenge, it is cross posted over there.  
_

* * *

**Skipping the Angles**

Hamel Durrah whittled away one last curl from the haft of the knife he was balancing, and tossed it into the air with a practiced flip. When the haft returned to his palm with a satisfying slap, he slipped the knife into his pocket and stood. He had only made it as far as the first lantern when he heard the scuffle of feet and murmuring voices on the wet street outside of his apartment. _Three_, he thought, automatically counting the potential threat. _Three, and they're in a hurry._ And hurry meant he wasn't going to damn bed after all.

He didn't startle when the door to his apartment was flung open. He did shove his hands into his pockets and turn away from re-lighting the lamp to face the intruders who entered as hastily as they'd walked. He took a step to the right, hiding his knife hand in the shadow of the gloomy corner. The room was large, considering he lived by himself - Hamel had visited families of six and eight crowded into much smaller rooms - but Hamel had a _special_ arrangement with the clans that controlled the city. He was allowed the extra space in return for his services. Times such as now.

"Are you a doctor?!" The intruder's query was breathy with exertion and loud with emotion.

Hamel remained silent, but his hand gripped the hilt of his new throwing knife a little more tightly; he didn't recognize any of them and they wore no colors. When the last figure turned and shut the door behind...her?...he took a moment longer to assess the group. There were four - three men and one woman, all armed (although not obviously), dressed in a mix of peculiar clothing styles. One of the men was suspended between the other two. He was the reason they were here, and the reason he'd miscounted.

The wounded man hung limply by arms held over the shoulders of his supporters. His feet dragged behind him making no steps of their own, but Hamel saw his eyes glint in the lamplight, gauging the room from behind shrouded eyelids. He was wounded but conscious - and calm. They usually came in either screaming like a pig on the chopping block, or so far gone that yelping was too much effort. Interesting.

"Hey! I asked you a question. Are you a doctor or aren't you? Because if you are, he needs help and you really need to get started."

The red-faced and shorter of the two - (5'10", 180) seemed to be squealing enough for all four of them. Hamel shifted slightly to get a better angle on the larger man (6'3", 210) who was gauging the space as thoroughly as Hamel was gauging him. The big man shifted in response, skipping Hamel's angle, and he felt his lips twitch. _This one knows the dance_. He would be the one to watch out for, Hamel guessed.

"Can't answer if I don't know what the stang you're talking about. Doctor is no word that belongs around here."

The woman stepped in front of the men, interrupting a bellow from her noisy companion with a gentle touch as she passed. "We seek a healer. Our friend is badly injured. He needs help and...shelter."

Hamel heard her hesitation over the last word, although the woman had fought to keep it out of her voice. The hair on the back of his neck began to prickle with warning.

"You've come to the wrong place. Nobody can heal someone else. That's up to him that's got a hole in him."

He shifted again and realized why he felt so uncomfortable. He couldn't get an angle on any of them. They moved wrong - too confident, their range was off. They danced different and all of them did it. Even the woman had set her feet in such a way that he was sure she could block or dodge his throw. The loud one was clueless, but the woman stood just within his guardian spot, protecting him as the big man protected the wounded one. It'd been a long time since Hamel had been out-danced in his own home. He shifted his grip from throwing to cutting.

"Teyla, would you tell the redneck thesaurus that Sheppard doesn't have time for pedantics. Is he going to help or not?"

Hamel tensed at the sharpness. "I don't _help_ 'til I know your allegiance. What colors do you wear?" Not that Hamel really cared, but he needed to know who he was dealing with, and who might be pissed at him for doing so. He needed to know who the hell these people _were_.

"We are visitors, outsiders. We do not swear allegiance to any local clan. We will leave when we have finished our business here. We will trouble you no further once our friend is no longer in danger."

"Mercenaries?"

The woman looked like she was about to argue but the big man whom he still had no name for spoke up abruptly, "Yeah. Something like that."

Hamel curled his lip into a sneer. "You stupid mercenaries? Or just slow." He jutted his chin at the wounded man - Sheppard? - who was sagging lower with each passing minute. The taunt was deliberate. He wanted to find these people's angles quickly.

The big man snarled back and thrust his chest out. Hamel tensed, already judging the motion: _Closer, depends on his strength, probably prefers fists over blades, weak to attack from the center..._

"Ronon!"

Hamel blinked. He'd thought the one called Sheppard was too far gone to follow the lip dance.

"Stand down, Chewie. We're the strangers here," he breathed instead, the words hardly louder than a hum and to Hamel's shock, Ronon checked his angle. Sheppard was a _Prime_? The wounded man? Hamel flicked a look at Ronon - what Second would pass a chance as obvious as this? Sheppard slid his feet under himself and lifted his chin higher. "Reema sent us here. She...said...you'd...help..."

Sheppard's faint words jibbed him, and he gasped around a deep growl of pain. The loud one paled to the color of curds and Ronon left himself wide open to grab for Sheppard's shoulders in a steadying embrace. That prickle of unease returned to Hamel's neck. Hamel was used to strangers - many street whelps found their way to his door, from all clans of the city - but these people were more than strangers, they were...strange.

"Reema sent you," Hamel managed at last. "Reema has her reasons. Lay him down there." Hamel flung a careless hand at the bunk in the corner of the room, then stayed put, watching, gathering his composure.

Ronon heaved and wrestled Sheppard to the corner where, together with the loud one, he lowered the wounded man gently onto the cot. Sheppard sat on the edge for perhaps a handful of heartbeats, then slumped sideways onto the blankets. Ronon lifted his feet and clucked at the loud one to help him remove the man's boots, all under the watchful eye of the woman. When she turned and approached him, Hamel startled and gripped his knife tightly. Teyla's eyes narrowed, noticing the attempt at an angle even as she adroitly skipped it. She seemed puzzled by the dance. No, she seemed puzzled by the need _for _it.

"Thank you," she said simply, but the words were not simple in meaning. She was pushing him to commit his services and seal the bargain.

"I don't heal," he repeated. "I only mask the pain so he can do it himself. Nobody can save him if he's too shredded."

"We are grateful for any assistance," she answered distantly. Sheppard writhed on the bed and Teyla's look of entreaty was cold.

_Who are these people and why are they here? _

Hamel walked to the polished cupboard by the small stove and began to rummage for his cloths, hardly noticing what his hands were doing. He couldn't shake a premonition of fear or change - like something more than four strange strangers had walked through his door. If he had any sense, he'd slip out and leave before they noticed he wasn't there anymore. They were careless in their concern, they left themselves open to comfort their Prime. They were either fools or...something that he'd never seen before and didn't have a word to go with it. He could get out, leave. He'd survived many a dark night by turning and walking away from a scuffle that a hotheaded whelp would have taken up.

Instead, he gathered his bandages and went to Sheppard's side, too. And he put his knife back in its pocket.

* * *

**Earlier:**

The breeze from the invisible jumper ruffled John's hair and he followed the tiny ship's hum skyward with his eyes. The engine noise vanished among thick gloomy clouds to be replaced by the steady drip of rainwater off clogged gutters. He took a deep breath and a cloud of condensation floated around his head when he blew it out abruptly. They'd dropped the jumper into a vacant lot that was surrounded by windowless brick buildings. The bare patch was cluttered with trash, discarded industrial-era junk, and weeds. Although it wasn't raining at the moment, everything was wet and slick in the chilled humidity.

"Stinks here," Ronon rumbled, first to speak after they'd all taken a quick look around.

"And Ronon wins the understatement of the year award," Rodney grumbled. John watched him wrinkle his nose then rub at it as if to scrub away the sour, rotted scent that saturated the place.

"We'll plant flowers later. Let's find someone who will talk to us."

John headed down a narrow alley towards a broad main street within the dysfunctional city. From the jumper, he'd noticed a few shops and 'establishments' that looked like promising places to start a conversation. Teyla joined him, a comforting presence at his shoulder. He felt naked without his P-90 clipped to his chest. The M11 pistol in its shoulder holster rubbed reassuringly against his armpit underneath his leather jacket, but the smaller weapon (smaller and fewer rounds than his Berretta even) was no substitute for the raw stopping power of his preferred PDW.

They were all geared subtly. What little intel they had on this planet was that it was post-industrial but in a state of anarchy. Like so many of the cultures that the wraith messed with, this one had been humming along, building coal and steam factories, figuring out the mysteries of Newton's physics when - bam - along comes the spider and permanently sets them back 400 years. The buildings and machines, largely inoperative, were still around, but the people lived like tribal thugs.

Tribal thugs without guns. John's mission dossier suggested that either they hadn't developed projectile weapons before the period of anarchy or that they'd run out of bullets and didn't know how to make them any more. It hadn't kept them from finding ways to kill each other, though. Considering the trouble their other teams had encountered, they'd decided that displaying superior firepower would only draw the wrong kind of attention. They were here for answers, not a rumble.

Rodney also wore a leather jacket and a shoulder holster. Teyla had opted for civvies - Athosian civvies - and carried her bantu sticks tucked into her belt. Ronon had been the hardest to convince. He'd pitched a fit at the suggestion to leave his blaster behind. In the end they'd compromised by pinning a holster on the inside of his long leather coat and the big gun was carefully tucked away out of sight. His short sword was in it's scabbard at his back in plain view, though. As was John's combat knife within its usual sheath, hanging off his belt. He'd read enough of the dossier to clue into the fact that, while calling attention wasn't a good idea, neither was looking like an unarmed geek. He shot a look over his shoulder at Rodney with the thought. This whole planet was on the wrong side of the tracks.

They left the alley and regrouped on the wide main street. It had once been paved with cobblestones, or primitive bricks - John couldn't tell which in their current crumbled state. More brick buildings lined both sides as far in each direction as he could see. What windows there were were boarded up or left open and gaping. It was the open ones that bugged him and John had to force himself to remember he wasn't in Qandahar with snipers leaning out of every dark hole. There were a few people moving about. Most were walking hurriedly, eyes to the ground, looking like they were desperate not to be noticed. The ones that seemed to swagger down the street were male, young and all wore colorful strips of cloth around their upper arms over whatever clothing they happened to have on. Interesting.

One of these young men crossed their path on his way to a shop that displayed images of knives on its hand-painted sign. John's frank curiosity drew a frown from the boy and he hesitated over a step.

"Watch your angles, old-timer," the youth snarled, flexing the arm with the ribbons. Some kind of rank designation, John guessed by the way the man flaunted them. John just lifted an eyebrow.

"Ouch," he muttered sarcastically once the kid was out of earshot. Rodney snickered.

They wandered a bit further, completely ignored. It was bizarre. He'd walked into countless villages in the Pegasus Galaxy and, while not always met with enthusiasm, they were at least...noticed. He waved Teyla closer.

"So, is it just me, or did we do the incognito thing a bit too well?"

"These people are quite unsociable," she agreed. She gestured discreetly to a woman with a young boy in tow. The woman was pointedly avoiding them and tugged the child towards the opposite side of the street to pass. "The boys with the colors generate much fear among the general population." She gestured again and John stiffened at the sight of two thugs harassing another woman. The woman kept her eyes down and clutched tightly at the net bags of groceries in her arms. One of the boys pushed at her until she dropped one of the bags and scuttled away, leaving her tormentors to laugh over their spoils.

"Zander said this place was unpleasant," John sighed, moving on with difficulty. He did spare a glare at the men. They seemed confused by his disapproval but too pleased with themselves to ask him about it. Too bad. He looked at the gloomy, overcast sky.

"We got here late. It'll be dark soon. I can't imagine how much more unpleasant it must get at night. We either need to find out what we came to find out, or we need to find something to do for the night. I don't want to get ourselves in the situation Zander's team did."

"Agreed." Teyla's voice was hard.

They walked for a few more blocks past empty or closed buildings in tense silence. The civilians on the street were moving even more hastily towards doors and side streets and there was a steady increase in the number of banded men about. John was brooding over their situation when Teyla touched his arm. "I have learned that, even in the most unstable communities, shop keepers make an effort to remain neutral."

He followed her nod towards a sprawling single-story building that boasted a marvelous iron sign depicting a tankard and a loaf of bread.

"A bar?" He stopped, considering. Teyla just lifted an eyebrow and John elaborated. "I don't know what kind of bars you've been in, Teyla, but I've been in some that were more dangerous than a Hive ship at lunch time."

"Then you will know how to handle this one." She grinned. "You have survived both."

John thought about it. She was right that a local joint was probably their best bet for news. It was also likely their best bet for trouble.

"Ronon?" he asked.

"I can handle it."

John chewed his lip for another round of mental coin flipping. "OK. Watch yourselves. We stay together. Teyla and I will ask the questions. Ronon, you look scary. Rodney, I want you to scan that place as thoroughly as you can without letting on. I want you to know every nook and cranny, every exit, entrance, secret tunnel and hidden passageway behind the bookcases. If we have to get out of there fast, you're the tour guide. Got it?"

Rodney's answer was more of a "meep" than genuine acknowledgment, but John took it. "Let's hit the pub, gents. And Lady." He gestured gallantly towards the door that spilled warm yellow light out into the dusky street, then followed Teyla's confident steps. He also reached inside his jacket and snapped the holster strap off his M11 and scooted his knife along its belt to the optimal quick-draw position.

"Let's hope it's not lunch time," he muttered to himself and stepped through the door.

* * *

**Now:**

Hamel stood beside the bed holding his small bottle of antiseptic and torn rags, looking down at the man called Sheppard, sizing him up as he did everyone. His features were strong but not rugged. There were creases around his eyes that spoke of experience and hardship, but his (unusually) short black hair was only just beginning to show signs of silver. The contradiction made his age tough to judge. Hamel guessed that he had maybe half a dozen years on the man, but that was still old to be a street player. Most men either burned out on the streets or faded into the arms of a woman to try to raise a family before they even got to Sheppard's age. He was about Hamel's height, but thinner and lighter. When Hamel did think to look in the mirror, he saw an old street whelp that had softened and widened on the outside as much as he had toughened and shrunken on the inside. Hamel's own hair had turned a dirty grey with age and worries many years ago.

He grunted and the strangers moved further away to allow him access, though none of them yielded their angles on him. The woman, Teyla, stayed at the head of the bed, the loud one planted himself firmly at the foot and Ronon began to pace the perimeter behind him. Hamel had decided that Ronon was Second and he still wondered why the big man, clearly ripe for Prime himself, hadn't acted.

Sheppard was on his side, his knees drawn into a protective curl. Belly wound, then. There were slashes cut into Sheppard's right arm and across the chest of the jacket the man wore; a matching tear crossed the black undershirt between the unzipped flaps. A shallow scratch into pale skin was visible through the torn fabric and oozed little bubbles of blood. Hamel suspected that the arm had been scored, too, but Sheppard had use of it so the blade had missed the tendon.

"Nice jacket," Hamel grumbled approvingly, he tossed the bottle and cloth onto the blankets. "Thick. Probably saved your arm."

"Lucky me," Sheppard whispered. Hamel was still surprised each time the man responded. Sheppard was hurting - that was obvious in the tension of his jaw and the way he defended the belly wound - but he watched Hamel with keen wariness.

"Want to take it off?"

"No."

"Suit yourself. You ready?"

"For what? What are you going to do?" This was bellowed by the loud one and Hamel finally got a name when the woman snapped at him in rebuke.

"Rodney, let him do his work."

"S'Okay, Teyla," Sheppard growled. "I had the same question."

Hamel shrugged. "Mask the pain."

"And how is that supposed to help? He needs an IV and replacement fluids, probably a transfusion. Lots of stitches. Lots and lots of antibiotics..." Rodney-the-loud-one's voice trailed off, leaving challenge behind.

"I don't have none of that. But a body fighting pain uses all its energy for that. Sometimes masking the pain gives the guy a chance to do the rest on his own like I already said. Sometimes, masking the pain gives the guy a chance to cross the big angle in peace."

"Cross the...?!" Rodney threw a look of entreaty at the woman, his voice gritty. "Teyla, he needs a _doctor._"

The woman was clearly troubled and her eyes held little trust. Hamel didn't care. They could stay or they could leave. Sheppard was studying him ferociously. He could almost feel the intensity of the man's scrutiny.

"A little less pain sounds pretty good about now." Sheppard didn't release him from the glare until he nodded.

"A _little_ less pain," Hamel repeated. No mercy numbing for this man. Rodney threw up his hands and turned his back. Hamel had expected him to continue arguing. He threw a look at Teyla and received the barest nod. "You ready?" he repeated to Sheppard.

"Sure."

Hamel concentrated. With the squealers he would mumble nonsense words and wave his arms to distract them while the pressure worked. With the boys who were too far gone he'd start the pressure the second they were dragged in. Most of the time, the companions thought they died before Hamel got to them. Helped him keep his reputation that way. This man didn't need any fake incantations. Hamel began the pressure and sought the pain. He didn't know how it worked or why. He just knew he could push away pain from another mind that was hurting. The harder he pushed, the more the mind was numbed.

Sheppard's eyes went wide and he lurched upright. The motion was excruciating, he could see it in the man's mind. Hamel startled and lost his concentration for an instant and Sheppard yelled, the angry cry ending in another agonizing gasp. Hamel pushed at the flaring pain, angry at Sheppard for jumping and at himself for letting the pain get away from him. He lifted his hand, fingers tensed into a claw and shoved with all his might. Sheppard writhed against the wall, twisting up the blankets under him. Then he slowly collapsed to bury his face in the bedding.

The woman rushed to press her fingers into Sheppard's neck. "What did you do?" she demanded.

"He fought me!" Hamel was spinning from the man's bizarre reaction.

"Answer my question." Teyla faced him and Hamel realized that he was crossing angles with all three of the strangers. He gulped down anger, forced himself to answer calmly.

"I pushed the pain from his mind. He fought the touch and jibbed himself sitting up like that."

"Do you have the Gift? Do you sense when Wraith are nearby?" Teyla jabbed a finger skyward.

"I...yes." The question surprised him more than anything these people had said so far. The truth was that he wretched like a poisoned dog when the Wraith were nearby. He grew so sick at their presence he saw visions of hell that no madman, poet or violent whelp could ever dream up. Teyla took a step closer and peered into Hamel's face with a concentration that was all too familiar. He felt her mind touch his, saw a flash of himself through her eyes. She sucked in a deep breath and her expression turned thoughtful.

"You can push minds, too," he said softly. It wasn't an unknown gift, but it often went unrecognized. He'd suspected his ability had to do with his weakness around the wraith, but he'd never met anyone else with the trait that would recognize it in another, much less ask them to their face about it.

"I can sense the presence of Wraith and have even connected my mind with theirs. But I have never known anyone with the Gift to be able to affect another person." She shot a look at Rodney who was sitting on the edge of the bed, also checking Sheppard's pulse. Sheppard hadn't moved. Rodney shrugged.

"We know that Wraith Queens can probe a human mind. Since the Gift is a side effect of Wraith DNA, then maybe this guy got some combination that allows a more direct psychic connection. Can you only alleviate pain, or can you also tamper in other ways with a person's mind?"

"I can see things sometimes, see what someone else sees. But pain is the only thing loud enough in a person's mind that I can push on. How the hell do you people know anything about a Wraith Queen?" He'd answered their damn questions. They owed him a few.

"We are strangers from farther than you have imagined. We travel through the Ring of the Ancestors that orbits your world in a space craft that the Ancestors themselves built. We have encountered Queens several times during our travels," Teyla answered. Hamel bristled at her placating tone; and at the nonsense she'd spooned him.

"And him?!" He jabbed his finger at Sheppard who'd begun to grunt softly and was rolling himself onto his back with Rodney-the-loud-one's help. It was Rodney who answered sounding proud.

"Oh, yeah. Sheppard's been interrogated by Queens a few times. Not a fun experience the way he tells it."

Hamel just stared dumbfounded. These people were liars worthy of a performance troupe. They had to be lying because if they weren't, then they were the most terrifying people he'd ever met. No one came from the sky except the Wraith. No one met the Wraith face to face and survived.

Rodney was still talking as if Wraith Queens and spaceships were everyday conversation, "If your Gift resembles a Queen's probe, then it's no wonder he freaked out."

"Did...not...freak...out," Sheppard mumbled, drawing the attention back to himself. He scrubbed his face with his hand. "Caught...me by...surprise."

"Yeah, well, you say _po-tay-to_... Did it work?"

Sheppard flopped his arms at his side. He blew out a wheezy breath.

"Yeah. Still feel like crap, but the pain is better. Lots better. "

"I still don't know how this is really going to help. Morphine kills the pain too, but it doesn't mean you're not still bleeding to death."

Hamel flung a hand at his bottle of antiseptic and cloths. "I can dress the wounds now."

Even if Sheppard _had_ faced a Queen and lived to tell about it (Hamel almost allowed himself to feel amused at the ridiculous thought) Sheppard was bleeding _now_ and infection was the angle you could only skip with cleansing and a lot of luck.

Rodney rolled his eyes, but heaved himself off the bed to stand at a distance with Ronon who had remained on sentry by the door, silent through the conversation but watching. Together, Hamel and Teyla spread open Sheppard's jacket and tugged it off the drowsy and bemused man. He was wearing a set of straps that held a leather pouch under his arm. Teyla hastily unfastened the device and handed the entire thing to Rodney before Hamel got a look at what the pouch held. He'd caught a glimpse of wood and black metal - a short club perhaps? The Green clan had experimented with a similar design for knives, once. He strongly suspected that Rodney wore the same contraption. The loud one's posture betrayed the bulky weapon despite its attempt at stealth.

The shirt under the jacket was a bloody mess. Hamel frowned at the slashes in the fabric. He spilled some of the plain alcohol disinfectant onto a rag while the woman cut off the shirt to reveal the wounds underneath. There was an unusual bandage of thick cotton and long strips of gauze wrapped all the way around Sheppard's lower waist. Teyla cut the strips with a deft swipe of her own blade, then lifted the sopping, bloody bandage away to reveal the hole underneath.

Hamel had seen more sliced flesh in his violent life than he cared to dwell on, so it wasn't the purple, puckered edges of the knife wound, or the crust of blood and fluid oozing out of Sheppard's gut that drained the blood from his own face and set his heart thrashing in his chest. He recognized that wounding pattern, spread out before him on the man's pale torso like graffiti on a brick wall: a single, ascending slash across both arm and chest, left to right, a second across the belly, right to left, deeper at the hip and getting shallower as it tracked towards the naval. He'd soothed more than one mouthy whelp with those wounds into the big sleep. It took a strong arm and a particularly vicious nature to inflict that kind of killing strike. If the attack was meant to be an assassination, the third stroke was always at the throat.

Hamel grabbed for Sheppard's face and forced his chin up to reveal a small scratch.

"Bloody Ancestors! Who did you fight? Who did this to you?" He yelled the question, but he already knew. Fear was twisting through his gut like the knife through Sheppard's. The woman and the loud one just stared at him in mild surprise. He bent over Sheppard and spat the question into his face, "Who?!"

Sheppard narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin.

"WHO!?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Earlier:**

They were in trouble almost the instant they walked through the doors. Turns out, it was the order that they walked through that was the trouble.

The tavern was larger than it seemed from the outside. The cavernous room sprawled back from the street for what looked like a city block at least. The high, unfinished ceiling was supported by iron columns at intervals throughout the room, but other than the massive bar situated in the near-exact center, there were no walls or divisions to the room. No _physical_ divisions, that is. There was clearly a territorial flavor to the way groups of young men clustered around the tall, chair-less tables. Each group seemed to brandish a similar set of ribbons and colors. John tensed, feeling the room as much as he was analyzing the dynamic.

Teyla must have decided to start at the bar and, still a few steps ahead of John, made a beeline towards it. Her confident strides belied her unease to John, but Teyla was Teyla and she wouldn't let fear alter her course. In this case, however, it was a mistake. Just inside the door was one of those loose clusters of men, all wearing strips of black and yellow. They were very young, probably 18-20 at the oldest, and looked too eager for a fight to John's eye. Teyla lifted her chin and strode into the 'territory' like a mother bear through a pack of wolves. Every boy turned to watch her, then every eye flicked a look at John.

"Go around," he snapped at Ronon, hoping the anti-social runner would pick up on the scene...and he dove in after Teyla. Mustering every ounce of ferocity he could muster, John plastered a snarl on his face and stared down the ones with the surliest looks as he passed through. He quickened his steps, snatched for Teyla's arm and yanked her close, away from a big kid with greasy black hair and a leer that set John's teeth on edge. The look John threw said "she's mine!" as clearly as if he'd had it tattooed on his forehead, and the big guy backed off - just enough to say 'she's not worth the trouble, buddy' but relinquishing none of his territory.

"Nice catch, Old man," the kid taunted, but John didn't take the bait.

Teyla was startled just long enough to get her out into neutral ground before she tried to tug out of John's hard grip.

"Hold still," John snapped, his eyes on the group that was still watching him. He adjusted his belt to display his knife more obviously and stared at the big greasy kid until Ronon and Rodney joined him. Ronon planted himself at John's shoulder. The kid looked Ronon over, then looked away. That was when John's heart began to beat again.

"John, let go!" Teyla growled, twisting to get free.

"Teyla, I'm sorry, but this isn't a nice bar, after all. I need you to stay behind me and follow my lead."

"I can- !" Teyla started, her voice angry and John leaned close.

"It's not about being able to defend yourself. It's about not having to. Remember when you said I'd know how to handle this place?" Teyla just glared and John smiled slightly, "Trust me," he said. She jerked her head in acknowledgment, but her frown clearly communicated that she was not happy about it.

They headed towards the bar again, but this time John led them in a path that weaved around the clusters of boys. Ronon kept his place in scary escort and Rodney brought up the rear. Teyla stayed in the middle with sullen obedience. When they reached the bar it was with something like relief that John put his back to the enormous, polished wood counter and took another survey to make sure they weren't causing too much attention. A few individuals were checking him out, but they seemed mostly curious rather than annoyed. He took a deep breath, held it for several counts, then blew it out in a rush, trying to shoo the rabbit that was chasing his heart around out with it.

When he returned his attention back to his team, he was unsurprised to see that Ronon had caught the attention of the female bartender and that Teyla was being courted by the guy next in line down the row. Rodney wandered over, fiddling with his jacket zipper.

"Teyla's gonna take that out on you the next time you spar," he observed with a snort. John sighed.

"Yeah. Better than getting herself and us killed, though. This place is worse than I thought. It's like being behind enemy lines."

"Are we sure this is where Major Cassini was last seen?"

"This is the general neighborhood. Zander said there's a handful of clans that control the city. He got into it with the one his team dropped on, so we picked another side of the tracks for our snooping."

"I'd call them gangs," Rodney muttered, still fiddling. John looked closer and realized that the scientist had found a way to hold the scanner inside his coat and was scanning as he pretended to fuss with the zipper. "Two entrances, the one we came in, the other directly opposite. Stairwell in the southwest corner that leads to a small rooftop apartment with three rooms, two people in there," Rodney muttered.

"How many in here?"

"Close to 150."

"_You drinking or you leaving_?"

John spun to find a fierce woman glaring at him from behind the bar. Aside from Teyla, she was the only woman John had seen in the room that wasn't physically attached to one of the men. Probably wasn't safe for any woman to walk in by herself, John reasoned privately. She was young, early thirties, and quite pretty. The two other large male bartenders shot him meaningful looks and John hastily put on his most polite face.

"What's good tonight?" Which was the best response when one had no idea what the local hooch might be called.

"Just got a barrel of Mallard's in."

"That sounds fine."

"And him?" She jerked her head at Rodney.

"Make that two." The woman hurried away, her movement fluid and efficient behind the bar. When she returned she was holding two frothing tankards in one hand and two glasses of some clear liquid in the other. She smacked them down, gave a practiced shove, and the four drinks slid into a perfect line in front of his team. She was called away a moment later to serve around the corner of the box shaped enclosure.

"You figure out a way to pay?" Sheppard asked before he took a sip. Ronon nodded and tipped his own glass up.

"They use their own coins here, but Reema took the silver pennies we brought in trade."

"Reema, huh? First name basis already. What did that buy us?"

"You're drinking it."

"Why do I feel like we got robbed." John took a taste of his drink and decided it was close enough to beer to call it so. Rodney just looked annoyed and pushed his tankard further away.

Ronon shrugged. "She's pretty."

John watched the room for a little while longer. There was a flow to the territories. He had almost decided they _were_ different gangs, united under some broader common flag, or maybe a truce. A Clan of little gangs to use the local term? There was an occasional scuffle between individuals within the groups, and once or twice a heated argument was taken outside. But while the groups kept to themselves, they also didn't form up ranks and go after each other. Maybe that happened later, he mused, and pretended to drink his beer.

"Ronon tells me you're from out of town." The woman was back and apparently had some time to spare. Ronon was grinning.

"Uh, yeah. From over the mountains to the East. Little town called Rocky Shelf." This planet's stargate was in orbit so the locals had no experience with 'gate travel. The Atlantis teams that had visited all used cover profiles.

"Sorry about the avalanche this Spring. You lose any kin?" Reema was watching his expression closely.

"No, that was down in Rocky Valley. We lost some good trading partners, though, and some of the best cheese animals in the region."

Reema nodded, and John fought to keep his expression neutral.

"So, what are mountain folk doing in the city?" she asked, looking more pleasant. He must have passed her test.

"We're looking for some friends. Came this way about six months ago and didn't make it home as expected."

"Awfully nice of you to go looking."

"Well, one of them's my cousin - aunt's all in a fuss. And the guy who was with him owes me money." John put on his most charming smile and raised an eyebrow. Reema grinned back. Rodney chuffed in disgust and turned back to watch the doors.

"These friends of yours, they have names?"

"Can't imagine you'd have heard of them." He didn't want to appear too eager.

"You never know. News travels and it usually stops at the bar on its way out of town." That was undoubtedly a local proverb and he caught Teyla's smug look as she listened in from the other side of Ronon.

"Well, I'm most interested in the guy who owes me money." Reema laughed. "His name is Cassini. Tony Cassini?"

"Well, the name doesn't ring a bell, but I can ask around for you. Who's putting you up while you're in town?"

"No one."

At that, Reema's expression went dark again. "That's not smart. Unless you've got some colors to vouch for you, you're fair game on the streets."

"We can handle ourselves. We just want to find Cassini and then we'll head home."

"I hope you can. I'll let you know if I hear about anyone by that name." Reema's voice remained frosty. She looked around, as if looking for an excuse to leave and bustled away at the slight nod of interest from another customer. John kept a close eye on her for the next hour, when she wasn't out of sight on the other side of the bar. Once or twice he did catch her talking to someone and glance his way. Each time the customer shrugged and wandered away again.

The place got more and more crowded. John was soon sandwiched between Rodney on one side and Teyla on the other. Teyla had finally decided that the constant effort of keeping tentacles off her body was more annoying than helpful, so she had retreated between her teammates, safe for the moment from inebriated attention. It grew warm and stuffy, despite the size of the room. While the territories shifted and flowed around the rest of the space, everyone made it to the bar to join the randomizing crush at one point or another. John talked to a couple more people who came and went, none of them offering even half as useful a conversation as Reema.

He was just deciding to give up on this place, maybe to go find another bar to check out, and had turned to wave Reema over for one last word when a bulky body shoved between himself and Rodney. Rodney squeaked out an indignant, "Hey!" which drew the attention of the boy who'd just violated John's territory.

"You got a problem, old timer?" the boy snapped. Rodney backpedaled a few steps and stood glaring, clearly uncertain as to what to do. He'd learned enough in his years on John's team to keep his mouth shut (thank the gods of self-preservation for that), but his expression was pure punk-bait. John sighed.

"No problem," Rodney managed.

"You're hogging the bar, Grandpa. You need to learn some manners about sharing." The kid had greasy black hair and was almost as thick as Ronon, though not as tall. He pulled his knife and had the instant attention of the barkeepers and the rest of the room around him. John stepped around and grabbed for Rodney's arm, subtly tugging him out of range. The manic grin on the kid's face creeped him out.

"You can have my spot," John said as calmly as he could muster. "We were just leaving."

"I wasn't talking to you!" the kid screamed and slashed his knife around with random jerks, as suddenly angry as he had been amused. The crowd spread out into a kind of semi-circle with John, still hanging onto Rodney, and King Kong Kid in the middle. Some were watching, some were laughing and egging the guy on. John shot a restraining look at Ronon and Teyla who were tense and alert at the kid's back.

"But the answer's still the same. Sorry to have bothered you. You can finish my drink, too."

John made every effort to sound unconcerned and sincere. The kid was stumped, clearly not getting the response he was expecting. The barkeepers had clustered on the other side of the counter, watching carefully and John got the sudden suspicion that the two big guys were as much bouncers as barkeepers. He had backup.

"We'll just go now so you don't have to talk to those guys, too," John finished, throwing in some extra incentive. He turned to leave, keeping his eye on the kid and really hoping he would decide he'd won. The crowd murmured its disappointment and John just almost thought they'd made it when Reema rushed up and slapped her hands down on the counter. _No! _ John cringed. _Just let the guy drink my beer and think he won_.

"Tredal, you know you're not welcome here!" Reema's bellow was loud and cocky. "Get your ass out and stop bullying my customers!"

_Crap. She had to go and give him an ultimatum_. John was completely unsurprised when the kid's face lit up again and he shoved John in the chest, just to prove he could. Reema opened her mouth to bellow another protest, but John was faster. With a step and a yank and a shove and a slam, Tredal was face down on the counter with his arm twisted into his shoulder blades. His knife was in John's hand. The kid was too surprised to even yelp, and John was sure he'd be dazed for a minute or two – he'd enjoyed blowing off some tension himself.

"You want to take out the trash?" John asked the nearest barkeep who nodded, just as surprised as Tredal. Reema was glaring at John now, though he couldn't figure why. He shrugged in her direction and waved a little once the barkeep had a hold of the kid. "We'll come back tomorrow afternoon," he told her. "If you hear anything about Cassini, you can tell us then."

John dove into the crowd and his team formed up behind him. He felt the mass of eyes follow him for a few moments, then slide away. By the time they reached the door they were weaving around groups again, completely ignored. Humid, night air never felt so good as when John stepped into the street and left the stuffy bar behind. He could do without the stench, though. Damp stone and sewage issues didn't make for very _fresh_ air, no matter how chilly. The street was utterly dark except for the occasional light from an upper story window and the very occasional street lantern that a few people had bothered to light outside their doors.

"Nice place," he said once the rest had gathered around just outside the door. He spread his jacket open and flapped, trying to cool off. "Think I'll plan my birthday party here. A cake, some candles, a few of my closest enemies. Maybe I'll invite Todd..."

"So what do we do now?" Ronon skipped to the point.

"Try another bar, I guess."

"Are you kidding? After what happened in there? Psycho bully almost sliced my head off!" Rodney was still red-faced from the encounter.

"That was nothing. I had him talked down til Reema goosed him on." He blew out a frustrated breath. "Wasn't her fault, though. You gotta act tough to live around here."

"Nothing..." Rodney groused.

"Yeah. Look, as crazy as it seems, I think our best bet is to bar hop through the night and sleep tomorrow. Reema was right. It's not safe to wander around." John caught a glimpse of a group of boys disappearing into an alley. "If we stay cool, we can disappear in the crowds. And maybe ask around about Cassini at the same time."

John took a moment to judge his team's opinion on the matter. Rodney clearly wasn't happy, but he'd done good in the thick of it. John would just remind him to keep his mouth on a short leash. Ronon and Teyla looked eager to get moving.

"So which way? How do we find another bar?" Rodney sounded like he was hoping that there wasn't an answer to the question and he kept glancing down the shadowy, dark street.

"We ask."

A small group of very drunk boys wandered out a few minutes later and Ronon, with his heartiest, friendliest manners, chatted them up until they eagerly gave directions to the next bar over. One of the kids, a thin lanky boy who looked like he drank more than he ate, shoved a gallant finger in the air.

"I know!" he bellowed, then had to readjust his feet to keep standing, "We'll take you there! Follow me, friend. And bring your Grandpas with you. And your lady."

John and Rodney scowled at Ronon's overly enthusiastic guffaw, but they were soon wandering down the street after the noisy, rowdy locals.

They followed at a leisurely distance. The street was wide, but John kept glancing at the inky black alleys and doorways that sucked what little light there was into dangerous nothingness. He kept his jacket open and both his knife and sidearm unfastened in their holsters. Teyla had her hand resting on her sticks, John saw. And Ronon - well, Ronon could draw any number of weapons in a heartbeat if he had to. Nothing unusual there.

"So, how do you know so much about crowd control?" Rodney wondered idly from just behind.

John snorted. "I pulled MP duty for a few months, once. Got the training course and the psychology lesson. It's come in really handy from time to time in Pegasus."

There were several quiet steps. "I may shoot the next guy who calls me Grandpa," Rodney groused.

"They're just a bunch of punk kids. Give 'em a break, Pops," John teased back.

Their guides stumbled along ahead of them, following the main street in the direction that John's dossier had said was another clan's territory. Maybe that was a good thing. They'd get a chance to ask around about Cassini to a whole new crowd. The street was deserted. That was good, too. They couldn't get into much trouble if no one was around to accidentally annoy.

He was wrong about that.

The ambush was sudden, swift and overwhelming. One second John was trotting behind a bunch of drunk kids, the next...

An animal roar rooted him into the pavement and a crowd of dark shapes poured out of the midnight crack between buildings. The largest and most ferocious of the shapes - a thick and heavy faced man - lunged straight at John. Instinct and training and an already overcharged adrenal state kicked him out of the startle reflex and John backpedaled. The single step he took saved his gun arm from being sliced off at the elbow, but he still felt the pull of blade through his jacket and a sting across arm and chest as the attacker's knife swung past in a savage swipe.

He didn't have time; he needed space. He continued to throw himself backwards, scrambling for distance. The next jab came in low, and terror flooded his chest as he felt the blade sink deep into his side and rip towards the middle. John's eyes locked with the man who had a knife shoved into his guts - there was nothing there but malice and a frightening confidence - the kind that said '_been there, done this before_'. There was also absolute intent to kill. With a desperate lunge, John shoved backwards and the knife slipped out of his belly to whistle through the remainder of its arc. John kept going, unable to acknowledge the deep ache that was building from his middle outwards.

The last swipe was aimed at his throat and with his last inch of space, he jerked his head backwards and felt the blade scrape along the jacket's collar and nick his neck with a tiny sting. The predator froze for an instant, shock spreading over the vicious face. _Don't miss much, do you?_ John thought, using the moment of surprise to his advantage. He made it a couple of more steps away and drew...his knife.

_He was wounded, probably badly. He needed to take this guy down - all the way down - and fast. He wouldn't have the strength to last a sparring match. He was too close to draw the M11. _ The thoughts flashed through his mind like sparks on water, reflections of the instinct and will to live thrashing in the depths.

His assailant roared another challenge and closed again. He looked really pissed. The man was obviously expecting John to try to back away again and over-compensated. His swing was long and wild. John ducked the swing, darted behind the guy's elbow, hooked his arm around the knife arm and reached around with his knife to slit the guy's throat open. John held onto the arms until the beast of a man sank to his knees. He let go and the man fell onto his face with a gurgling whimper.

John just stood there, breathing hard, lost for a moment in that victory/horror head rush he felt each time he was forced to take another life so intimately. There was an eerie silence around him and he suddenly remembered his team. He whirled, drew his gun and faced a street full of people...that were all staring at him.

It was a bizarre tableau. Six boys with more colors on their arms than he had yet seen were frozen in various states of combat with his team. Two were sprawled on the ground, out cold. One was wrapped in Ronon's arms. One was squared up, disarmed and looking very flustered, in front of Teyla who brandished her sticks. The remaining two had Rodney by the arms up against the rusty metal wall of the neighboring building, but their knives hung loose in limp hands.

"Hey! Let go of him!" John yelled, then gasped. That ache in his side flared and John felt cold sweat pop out on his face. _Great_.

To his surprise, the boys who were holding Rodney immediately stepped away, looking scared and uncertain. John decided to run with it. "You!" he bellowed at the kid that Ronon was holding, "Who are you? Why did you ambush us?" He tried to encourage the anger coursing through him that was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

"You...you killed him," the boy sputtered. John shot a look at the man lying in a puddle of his own blood on the street.

"He tried to kill me first. _Why_?!"

"You...you were asking about The Major. Salma said any friend of The Major is an enemy of the Black Clan."

"Salma?"

The kid looked at the dead man, then back at John with narrowed eyes. "You killed him."

"And who's The Major?"

"Red Clan. Took Prime about four months ago. He's been growing Red's territory ever since."

"Is this Major guy's name Cassini? Tony Cassini?" John wasn't really sure he wanted the answer to that. If Cassini had gone rogue, then his day had just gotten a lot stranger. The belly wound flared again and John wrapped his arm under his jacket and felt blood-soaked fabric slip against blood-slicked skin. Ronon frowned, noticing the gesture.

The kid shrugged, "I've heard that name. Everybody around here just calls him The Major."

"Crap," John muttered and closed his eyes in defeat.

"Sheppard?"

He ignored Ronon's concern. "Get out of here," he said at last, then louder, "Get out of here! Tell the rest of your damn Black Clan that right now, I'm not very friendly with The Major either."

At John's gesture, Ronon released the boy but he added a pointed glare. The routed ambush regrouped under the urging of the kid that had talked and once they were moving away, he turned back to John with a calculating expression.

"You calling for Prime?"

"Go!"

They went. The little group of drunk boys rejoined them, all wide eyed and all staring at John, too. It was getting annoying, to be honest. One of them stopped and blinked hard, then pointed an accusing finger. "You killed Salma. Nobody kills Salma. He's unbeatable." He looked like he couldn't decide whether to be pleased or horrified. "You killed him! You killed him!"

The boy ran down the street back towards the bar, crying out his alarm like the Munchkins going on about Dorothy's house. The last thing John needed was a damn parade. "We should get out of here," he said just before his blood pressure outshouted adrenaline and stubbornness. He swayed on his feet, then doubled over and sank to the street. Ronon's firm grip caught him before he planted his face in the wet concrete.

"_Stanga_, Sheppard. Let me look at it," Ronon growled. John felt himself rolled onto his back and propped up against Teyla's knees as she knelt to support him from behind, but he felt strangely disconnected. Ronon kneeling before him and Rodney hovering just behind were like images painted on a blank background. Ronon dug in his coat for a moment and yanked out a field compress that he slapped into John's belly. John hissed through clenched teeth at the touch and the images faded a bit more. Teyla's arms around his chest gripped tighter, half support, half embrace. There were running footsteps and more voices.

"You finish, McKay. I'll talk to them."

Rodney tied the compress around his waist and then leaned against the pad slightly to keep pressure on the wound. John fought to keep from writhing and the part of reality he could keep track of narrowed even further. The voices around him grew sharp and he blinked to find Reema leaning over him and studying his face with that same combination of wonder and horror that everyone else seemed to be wearing. He saw her eyes flick to Salma's motionless body, then rake over the bandage on his side.

"You can take him to Hamel. He can help and he'll give you shelter. Right now, you need to get off the streets," she said. John drifted for a bit while she explained the directions to Ronon. He startled and roused again when Rodney and Ronon began to tug on his arms. They knelt, then hoisted him to his feet between them. He almost passed out for good at the agony of the movement, but he let a growl of complaint escape and - just barely - managed to keep himself conscious. Ronon shifted his weight a bit, and then they were moving into the darker parts of the street, leaving blood and chaos in equal measure behind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Now:**

"WHO?!" Hamel grabbed Sheppard's shoulder and gripped it hard.

"Some guy named Salma. Sprung an ambush near Reema's place."

Hamel leaned closer, feeling his lips peel into a snarl, "And how did you get away? Once Salma decides to kill you, you're dead." He wiped his fingers through the blood on Sheppard's neck. Salma might leave a mouthy one alive to watch his own guts fall out, but if he'd gone for the throat, then...Sheppard shouldn't be here.

"I killed him, first," was Sheppard's simple reply. Oh, why was simple never what it seemed!

Hamel held his eyes and saw the soul of a man who had done what he said he'd done. You could always tell it in the eyes - a man who had killed to survive looked at you different than a man who'd never had to. He stood up, breathing hard with the implications. He didn't want to believe that he was harboring the man who had just killed the Prime of the clan who's colors he lived under. But the story was in the wounds. The belly thrust was deep, still probably fatal, but too short. Sheppard had countered before Salma opened him up from hip to hip. Salma had gone for the throat anyway, but missed his angle, leaving only a scratch. It was all there. Hamel could almost see the dance in his mind.

"You killed Drak Salma," he breathed. "Ancestors help me, you killed the Black Prime." All his and Reema's work, all the planning, all the days of waiting and enduring Salma's brutal regime - all for nothing.

"He had it coming," Sheppard whispered.

Hamel sank onto the edge of the cot and buried his face in his hands. No wonder Reema had sent them to him. It must be civil war out there by now as news spread and the Seconds yapped at each other for the Prime spot. But what was her angle? Reema's reasons weren't always simple, either.

"You have no idea how right you are about that. But it's too soon. We're not ready."

"You were looking to take over?" The question was innocent, but the suggestion threw Hamel into a rage.

"Bloody beheaded Ancestors - No! What the hell kind of fool do you think I am? Prime is for young whelps with fight still in them. Do you think an old man like me could last ten seconds against..._that_?" He gestured towards the door and the chaos outside.

"Jeez...just askin'," Sheppard whispered, then gasped with some tendril of escaped pain. Hamel was distracted and reached out to push it, but Sheppard resisted again. "Don't," he hissed. "Not unless I say so. And I don't think you're a fool. From what I've seen out there, this Salma guy must have spent most of his time watching out for himself instead of his people. You at least..." John waved a hand over his own bloody body and shrugged slightly.

"I what?" Hamel still felt angry, like the man was challenging him.

"Take care of people," Sheppard finished, looking surprised that he had to ask.

Hamel didn't know how to answer. He really needed to talk to Reema. He really needed to get away from these strangers who had managed, in a single night, to turn his whole world inside out.

"You were going to dress the wound?" Rodney the loud one prompted when nobody said anything.

"I need to leave." Hamel shoved the bottle of antiseptic and the cloths into the hands of the woman, then dashed across the room for his jacket. Ronon stood in his doorway and it suddenly occurred to him that he couldn't leave if these people decided not to let him. The slip in his dance made him all the angrier. "I need to talk to Reema!" he demanded, staring Ronon down and damning all the angles to hell.

"Let him go," Sheppard ordered weakly from the bed and Ronon stepped aside. The obedience of the fully vibrant Second to the dying man sent a shiver down Hamel's spine. It wasn't...normal. Such devotion was...something he didn't have a word for. And wished he did. He flung open the door and pushed himself through, but paused on the doorstep.

"I'll be back," he said, surprising himself. "Lock the door and you'll be safe. I'll be back after I talk to Reema."

* * *

John watched Hamel leave, then wagged his fingers in a 'bring it on' gesture, anticipating the reaction. Rodney took the bait.

"You're just going to let Doctor Do-Nothing walk out of here to tell everyone on the planet where we are?" Teyla and Ronon also gathered close and John pushed himself up on his elbows to complete the circle.

"He'll come back. I don't think he or Reema were loyal to that Salma guy. She could have just let us wander around on our own, or sent us to the wolves straight if she wanted to. How long before the jumper checks in?" The question was half devised to distract Rodney, half admission that he was having trouble keeping stuff straight. He really hoped he didn't sound as weak and slow as he thought he did.

"Twelve hours."

John closed his eyes, briefly. Then worked up the courage to glance at the hole in his side. He looked away quickly and swallowed hard. "Think I'll..." He coughed, tried again, "Think I'll make it 'til then?" Atlantis was running nearly constant ops since the Ancients had died at the hands of the Asurans and left Atlantis back to them. The jumpers were booked solid, catching up on two months of intel and allies, but John had wedged in this mission and assigned his own team to take the risk of being cut off for 18 hours at a time. He hated being right about that risky part.

Teyla's answer was to sit beside him on the cot and run a quick medical check. He wouldn't look when she probed the wound and spent some time cleaning the surprisingly neat cut with the antiseptic and cloths. Salma's blade had been nice and sharp. It was really strange how it didn't hurt, when he knew he should be screaming his best obscenities at her doctoring touches. It was a little like being on pain meds, except he wasn't loopy. There was just a weird sensation of tension all through his middle that somehow, didn't quite make it to his brain. Ronon and Rodney watched with expressions of silent concern.

Teyla finished by wadding a lightly soaked cloth into a ball over the wound, then she covered that with a fresh field compress. When she finished tying it down, she took a deep breath and met his eyes. He couldn't help but feel a little flutter of fear at what she might say.

"The entry point of the wound is deep, but shallows quickly. The blade may have pierced the abdominal wall, but I don't know. The muscle is torn for several inches. It is no longer bleeding heavily, at least externally, but the internal damage may be more severe. You will survive until the jumper arrives, John. But I fear for infection and the problems that may arise from delayed care. I would caution you to keep very still to avoid exacerbating the wound. If the torn muscle fails..."

"I get to walk around inside out, I get it."

"Oh that's just wrong," Rodney gasped, turning pale. John threw him a '_you think?_' smirk, then fell thoughtful, on to the next problem.

"OK. I get to lie around thanks to our jealous friend Salma. That means we need to split up. Ronon, can you get into the Red Clan territory and find out if this "Major" character really is Cassini?" John watched carefully as Ronon thought it over; the big guy sometimes bit off more than he could chew out of pride or responsibility. The fact that he was taking his time to answer told John that he was being more realistic than usual.

"I can get in," Ronon answered at last. "But what do I do if I find out that it _is_ him?"

"Use your best judgment. If you have an opportunity to talk to him without getting sliced, take it. We have got to find out what's going on. If he's decided to go AWOL and set up his own little empire on this planet, then he gets a Special Ops team put on his ass and comes home kicking and screaming." John blinked through a spell of dizziness, "But not today. Today we find out what we can and try to get home ourselves."

"Sounds good. Shall I go?"

"Yeah. Meet us here or at the jumper. We'll consider you under radio silence. Call us on Channel 2 if you need us."

"Got it."

Ronon fussed with his coat for a moment, drew out his gun (John didn't blame him), then walked unconcernedly towards the door. He unlatched the bolt and checked the street before he looked back at the bed.

"You, OK?"

John shrugged. "I don't know." Ronon shot his last look at Teyla, his expression pointed.

"Good hunting," she replied.

Once he was gone, John found himself shivering, despite the blanket Teyla had laid over him while they talked. Ever vigilant, she directed Rodney to find a sweater from Hamel's drawers and he was soon bundled in a scratchy but warm pullover, his torn but still warm jacket, and more blankets. Rodney stoked the small wood oven and as soon as he finally began to feel warm again, he dozed, plagued by restless dreams of pain and regret.

* * *

Hamel prowled through the streets of his home, his hand on his knife and his ears alert, but the dance was automatic. His mind was spinning with the implications of Salma's death. A group of whelps wandered across his path and he faded into shadows until they passed. They were little threat to him, but he had no wish to be seen until he talked to Reema. He was certain he heard Salma's name spoken in shocked hisses as the boys talked among themselves. News was spreading.

When he reached the tavern, he skirted the building's large footprint to enter the alley at the East side. A metal staircase, blocked by chain and barbed wire rose to the rooftop. Hamel jumped the chains easily and was soon at the top near a small apartment perched over the bar. A lantern was lit outside the door, splashing light to the edge of the roof and the stairs he had just climbed. Hamel whistled a complicated trill, waited for the answering trill before he took another step.

"Safe passage, Johar. I need to see Reema."

"Go ahead, Hamel," came the reply from the shadows on top of the apartment. Johar was the most adept thrower Hamel had ever taught. No one made it to the apartment without permission. Those who tried, got a knife in the eye.

The door opened before he'd knocked. Reema's eyes widened in surprise and she stepped quickly aside to let him in. Two of her brothers, Lars and Kennon - also bartenders at her bar - were standing in the small living room, looking as worried as he'd ever seen them. Hamel could hear the bar below his feet rumbling with agitation.

"We were just coming to talk to you. You've heard." It wasn't a question. Hamel's temper flared again.

"Heard?! You sent the damn Challenger to my door. How did this happen?! Who is that man?"

"He says he's from the mountains, that he's here looking for a man who owes him money. Salma challenged him and...he won." Reema's voice was thick with disgust. Salma never _challenged_ anyone. When he went for a kill he was as dishonorable as he was brutal.

"But why? Why would Salma bother crossing angles with an out-of-towner?" Hamel kept the business about space travel in ancestral ships to himself. Half because he didn't believe it, half because he knew Reema wouldn't even if he did.

"Who the hell knows why Salma does anything he does?!" she snapped, but there was something in her voice that sounded too shrill. She was as badly flustered as he was. "The stranger - "

"Sheppard," Hamel interrupted.

"- got into it with Tredal at the bar just before he left. Maybe he mouthed off and Salma was feeling whelpy."

Hamel frowned. That didn't fit. Sheppard had used the word "ambush". The nick to the throat proved Salma had been going for the kill. But he skipped that angle for the moment, "So, what do we do? Young Dashal's not ready. If he tries for Prime and falls to one of Salma's Seconds, we're back to nothing."

"That is why we were coming to you. I've sent word to Dashal to lie low for now. The Seconds are already fighting it out. Word is that Salma's brother, Selak has already crossed out Roth. Raga skipped town."

"As we feared. Dashal is no match for Selak." Hamel felt fury pounding in his veins. "And Selak is as bad as Salma. If he manages Prime, it'll be bloody for years." A new Prime, establishing his authority, was horrible to behold. If only Dashal were a few years older! Reema's voice went low and calculating and she stepped closer, a gleam of something in her eyes.

"The stranger is the pending challenger. Dashal is no match for Selak...but if he crosses out _Sheppard_, he can claim Prime and our goals are achieved."

"But Selak would never allow Dashal to stand..."

"We'll take care of Selak. We'll send Johar."

Hamel went very still. He saw her angle now. She'd sent Sheppard to him, not out of gratitude or concern, but to put Sheppard in the right place for her plans. She'd grasped the opportunity within moments of Sheppard's surprising victory.

"You would jib Selak and throw Sheppard into Dashal's angle?" He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his tone. "We've been grooming Dashal for a fair challenge. To show the Black Clan that you can be strong with honor. That there's more to leadership than intimidation!" The image of Ronon stepping aside at Sheppard's weak command flashed before his eyes and Hamel flushed with anger. Reema's face went dark with her own.

"If we don't take this chance _right now_, Selak will have his Seconds in place by morning and there will be no toppling him. You know what it's like, Hamel. You saw what Salma did to Jonah when he took Prime."

Hamel turned away, clenching his fists. How _dare_ she bring up Jonah...his son. Not a son by blood, but a son none the less. Reema pursued him.

"If we can set Dashal up as Prime... Hamel, it's the only chance we have for something even close to peace around here. It's not the path we wanted. But we've got to take the one given to us."

She stopped for a moment, letting it sink in. She had played her highest card first. She knew him, and she knew he would agree. But he was just beginning to wonder if he knew her as well as he thought.

"Sheppard took a cut, didn't he? What're his chances he'll live?" Her voice was soft, reasonable, resigned.

"Not good. Infection will cross him out in a few days." In Hamel's world, a gut wound was the same as a kill strike. It just took longer and was twice as painful.

"He's gonna cross the big angle anyway, Hamel." He felt her hand on his shoulder. "He's done us a favor, as unprepared as we were for it. No one's come close to Salma in years. He can do us one more favor. His legacy will be peace in this Ancestor-forsaken city."

She waited. Hamel nodded and turned back to find Reema smiling at him. The smile sent a shiver down his spine.

"What do I do?"

"Bring him to the crossroads on my signal. It will take us a couple of hours to get ready. We'll bring Dashal and witnesses."

"How? Sheppard's sliced. He won't just volunteer to take a walk with me."

"We'll make something up. You can push him so numb he'll be able to stay on his feet long enough."

"Long enough to die," Hamel muttered, shivering again. "And his friends?"

"Hopefully they'll respect the challenge."

"If they don't?"

She shrugged. "Johar and Lars will be there. We'll make sure they do."

Hamel went still again, but this time he just wanted to get away.

"I'll wait for your signal."

"We'll send a runner," Reema replied.

Hamel left the apartment without another word.

* * *

John's rest was short-lived. Whatever Hamel had done to him to mask the pain began to wear off after about an hour. It didn't come back in a rush, but rather in a slow, tightening fist. He gritted his teeth and shifted on the bed, frustrated.

"John?"

Teyla was instantly at his side and he chuffed, even more annoyed that she'd noticed. He gave up going back to sleep and pushed himself up against the wall. Teyla looked like she wanted to protest the movement, but what she didn't know was that John was desperate to curl up again and sitting was as close as he'd allow himself.

"I'm fine," he snapped at her concern. "Just...pissed."

"At Major Cassini?"

"Him, too."

"Ah. You blame yourself for your injury."

"No, I just... Should have been more careful." He looked away.

"I _was_ more careful, and they still got the drop on us." Rodney's bitter tone as he butted into the conversation surprised John out of the moment of self-rebuke. "I was scanning for life signs while we walked. I saw a few other groups of those gang kiddies wandering around a few blocks away, but the brutes that ambushed us were NOT there. I mean, they didn't show up on the scanner or I would have mentioned a group of seven people standing still in a dark alley we were about to pass."

"Why?"

"Why didn't they show up? You got me. But I suspect that the building they were behind was shielding them somehow. It was more of a metal warehouse than the local brick, so maybe the metal..." He shrugged. "They got real lucky, picking that particular alley. Any other spot and we'd have spotted _them_ first."

"We've had nothing but BAD luck on this damn planet." John fell thoughtful again. Cassini's team had come back dead or beat up without him six months ago. Zander's team had lasted only a few hours before they got into it with a clan and had to blast their way out of a scrape. Zander had (rightly) decided that they wouldn't get very far in their snooping, having attracted such pointed attention. John himself had managed to cross the local head honcho in his first hour. "_Bad_ luck..." he repeated, wondering.

Hamel showed up a half hour later and John had never been so glad to see anyone in his life. The pain had grown to such a level, that it took all his concentration to keep himself from screaming. Even the slightest twitch of movement felt like Salma's knife was still in there, scraping away a layer of nerves at a time. By the time Hamel had hung his coat on the hook by the closet and moved to stand beside the bed, John was sweating bullets and trembling with effort. The local magician gave him a once-over before he spoke.

"You ready?"

"Yeah...could...use...some..." he didn't finish as the soft whisper seared through him. Even breathing hurt. He felt the pressure almost instantly and fought the instinct to resist. Hamel's touch pushed on his mind like a Queen's interrogation, but instead of words or information, the thing drawn out of his mind was the pain. It took longer - he hurt worse than before - but slowly, he found himself able to relax a little and breathe more deeply. The pain retreated into the phantom tension again. It took him longer to shake off the shudders and he still felt exhausted.

"May I sit?" Hamel seemed subdued.

"Sure."

The middle-aged man brought the single chair from his small dining table over and arranged it to watch John as he slumped against the wall, still stubbornly sitting upright. Mostly upright. Rodney was poking at his scanner at the foot of the bed and Teyla was standing guard at the door, peering out the window into the dark street beyond. It was she who had let Hamel in. John rested, wondering how the hell he was going to make it to the jumper rendezvous and worrying about Ronon. When Hamel spoke again, he had to blink himself alert.

"Where is your Second?"

"Huh? Oh. Ronon went to look for someone."

"The man who owes you money? Reema told me you said you come from the mountains."

"Cover story. Takes too long to explain the stargate. You didn't believe us anyway."

"I didn't." There was another long silence.

"Why are you here?"

John hesitated. Hamel had reacted badly to the news of Salma's death. How would he respond to knowing that John was probably after the Red Clan's leader, too? He was about to make something up when Hamel's expression caused him to reconsider. Hamel was leaning forward, his full concentration on John, his eyes searching - for lack of a better word - for something that he thought John had the answer to. Maybe the truth was called for after all. John caught Rodney's curious glance as he listened in.

"Six months ago our people sent a team to your world and one of them, Cassini, didn't make it back. One of my men was killed, the remaining two escaped, barely, but couldn't confirm whether Cassini was dead or alive. I brought my team to find out what happened to him." John floated the name, watching for a reaction.

"_Your_ men..." Hamel breathed softly to himself. "You came for revenge?"

"No! To find out what happened. If there is a chance he's still alive, we'll keep looking."

"And when you find him?"

"That's up to him. You see, we may have a problem. One of the kids who ambushed us said that Cassini _may_ have interfered a little in your City."

"Interfered?"

"_Major_ Tony Cassini."

Hamel groaned and put his face in his hands. John watched him warily and he could tell that Rodney was paying attention, too. They were both surprised when Hamel began to laugh, the sound desperate rather than joyful.

"The Major of the Red Clan is one of your men," he said, putting the pieces together correctly.

"Ronon went to find out if they are really the same person. If he is, then it's my job to take him home. He's not supposed to be messing with you people."

Hamel looked at him and John thought he saw something in the tough guy act get a little softer. "You may want proof, but my bet is that he is one of your people." His voice went soft and he looked down at his clasped hands. "Salma was foaming that Red has been expanding its territory, but three months ago the number of boys that find their way to my door from Red started to dwindle. I watch handfuls of our young men die every week, from all the major and minor clans. We're losing another generation to the street. But something is happening in Red that is keeping them from killing each other. None of our people have been able to do that for 100 years. Reema and her brothers and I... We've been grooming a Prime for that kind of leadership, one that would use his strength for peace rather than his own glory."

"And I screwed up your timetable. Sorry about that."

"It happens. Something always happens. Tell me about your clan."

Rodney snorted at the colloquialism and John shot him a nasty look. "My people don't organize around clans," John clarified.

"But you're a Prime, whatever you call your people?"

"I'm in command of a lot of men and women," John talked for a bit, describing military rank structure briefly, how Cassini was his subordinate, and how none of that had anything to do with how you lived as a civilian. Hamel nodded as he spoke.

"That is not unlike how a clan works, except you usually fight your way up through the ranks if you decide to stay on the streets."

"We've found that's not as...efficient as you might want," John advised, wisely.

"And Ronon, your Second. What is his rank?"

"Ronon's a special case - shut up Rodney. He's on my team because he chooses to be on my team. Teyla, too. They're on my team because we're friends."

"And him?" Hamel nodded at Rodney who'd given up pretending not to listen. John rolled his head and looked at him.

"Oh, me? I'm on the team because Sheppard frequently needs technical expertise on away missions. My knowledge of Ancient technology, and the hard sciences in general, is often a significant contribution to the success of our objectives." Rodney finished with a haughty thrust of his chin and Hamel just looked at John, puzzled.

"He's my friend, too," John clarified.

Hamel leaned very close, suddenly intense. "How old are you, Sheppard?"

That was probably the strangest question anyone had asked him considering the circumstances, but he thought he understood. "Forty. On my world, experience and good behavior earns you rank. I've at least got some of the former." He chuckled at his own joke, then realized Hamel wouldn't get it, so he sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm young for my rank."

He was also tired. He was hoping Hamel was done talking for a while so he could think for a few minutes about Cassini and how the hell to get out of here. "I still think you'd be good at the Prime thing," he finished idly. Hamel struck him as the kind of man who could take care of himself, but he had a streak of compassion.

"No!" Again there was the anger, the swift denial in Hamel's answer. John didn't bother arguing. In fact, he didn't bother staying awake either. He woke briefly when Hamel tugged him away from the wall to lie more comfortably on the bed then fell swiftly asleep again. When he was awoken next, it was by an urgent shove against his shoulder and his warm covers being yanked off his shoulders. He startled, hearing the urgency of Teyla's voice as she shook him again.

"John, you must wake up. A boy has just come, sent by Reema. You are in danger here."

"What?" He sat up on his elbows and tried to push the fog away, but the room went sideways for a minute and he closed his eyes tightly, breathing hard against the vertigo. Hamel's presence soothed away the ache that had flared at the motion (and damn him, didn't he say to ask permission first!) but the fatigue and general sense of illness was markedly worse than when he'd fallen asleep. He felt a cool touch on his forehead and Teyla's voice sounded worried as she answered.

"You've been asleep for almost two hours. Reema's messenger says that the men who seek revenge for Salma's death have gathered and are on their way here to find you."

"And how would they know where to come, I wonder?!" Rodney's voice was thick with accusation. John forced his eyes open to see Rodney glaring at Hamel who stood quietly in the shadows by the door.

"I told you. Nearly every boy who gets sliced finds their way here. My gift is well known. Selak doesn't _know_ you are here, but he knows you were sliced and he knows this is a pretty good place to look for you."

"So what do we do?" John asked. He believed Hamel. There was something about the guy that John found trustworthy, although he'd be hard pressed to put into words what it was. Rodney was still glaring, though.

"We need to leave. I know a place you can go. I'll take you there." Hamel replied as if John had asked him alone.

John pushed himself slowly to the edge of the cot and swung his legs over. "Have you heard from Ronon?"

"No," Teyla answered.

"How...how long until the jumper makes its flyby?"

"Another eight hours."

John scrubbed his face. He felt like crap. His hands and knees were shaking from the slight effort of sitting up. The tension in his middle, masked pain, was like a torrent being held back by a dam. Perhaps, he realized, that was the cost of Hamel's gift - pain held down would build up to intolerable levels quickly. If released all at once... When he looked at Teyla again, he found her studying him worriedly.

"You shouldn't walk, John. You shouldn't move at all. You have started fever. And...there is obviously some internal bleeding, although not severe."

"Obviously?"

Teyla's trapped, embarrassed expression sent him scrabbling for the hem of his borrowed sweater. He yanked the fabric up, and gulped. His belly was a streaky, dusky blue, like a mottled bruise, radiating out from the stab wound. Where it wasn't blue, the skin was violently red and his whole middle was swollen, but just slightly.

"You shouldn't walk," she repeated, more firmly.

"We need to leave," Hamel repeated, matter-of-factly. "I know where to go. I can numb you up enough to -" Hamel's voice caught for some reason, and he coughed, cleared his throat, "- to get there. It's not far."

"John..."

"Teyla's right. We should just hole up here. Barricade ourselves in. We've got enough bullets between us we can hold them off," Rodney jumped in.

"Yes! We have only to stay sequestered until the jumper and reinforcements arrive."

"I'm not going to be any good to you in a fight, guys. I don't want you to get hurt and I don't want to have to kill any more of these people. We've already..done enough damage here." He was thinking of Cassini and Hamel's little ku-in-progress.

"They started it!" Rodney snapped.

"Hamel, what do you think?" John ignored Rodney and Teyla for the moment. He wanted the local opinion. "We have weapons that your people haven't seen before. They're pretty efficient. We can barricade ourselves in your house or we can go with you and hide somewhere else until our ship arrives to take us home. What would be best for you and your people?" He was fishing for how determined these guys were, and how easily they might be persuaded to just go away.

When he finally spoke, Hamel's voice was tight, the words were thick with anger. "What would be best is for you to never have come here. You are the challenger, you killed the Prime. For any player to take Salma's place, he must prove that you are either already dead, or he must kill you himself. Selak, the Second who is expected to replace Salma, will not easily give up that authority. As long as you...live, the Prime is in doubt. What do I think is best?" At that, Hamel paused again. John couldn't quite read his expression from across the room and in the dim lighting of the room. "We should leave. I will take you where you will not be in danger from Selak. Selak must _not_ become Prime."

John waited, making sure Hamel had nothing more to say. He'd felt goosebumps shiver along his spine at the anguish in Hamel's words and couldn't shake the sense of responsibility for it. He felt Hamel's distress for his people; a distress that - albeit unwillingly and unknowingly - John had caused.

"Then we'll go with you to your shelter."

Rodney opened his mouth to protest and John straightened, snapped out his retort before he or Teyla got their mouths open, "These guys are not playing, Rodney. If killing me means that much to them, then they won't be scared away." He finished with a glare at Teyla, "It's not about defending ourselves...it's about not having to." He hoped she would see the connection. They could fight for eight hours and hope it went their way...and leave bloodshed and hardship in their wake. Or, he could take a risk - with his own life, granted - and try hard to avoid a fight. "I can make it a few blocks," he added, as if by sheer conviction he could make it so.

Teyla and Rodney both glared, their expressions more concerned than ferocious. Neither of them relented their opinions, but with their silence, they acknowledged his authority in the matter. John flashed a very small smile of gratitude, then turned back to Hamel.

"We'll go with you," he repeated.


	4. Chapter 4

Ronon stalked through the misty streets in an easy prowl. It still wasn't raining, but the air had thickened with moisture until the few lamps were surrounded in a hazy globe of cool, misty fog. It was as if even the clouds were unsure what to do on this Ancestor-forsaken world. He kept to the shadows, working his way deeper into the Red territory, but he was still uncertain about how he was going to find The Major and confirm for Sheppard if the Red Clan Prime and Cassini were one and the same. He'd met Cassini on Atlantis, the Major had seemed a tough but reasonable guy, a five year veteran of the Stargate program, team leader on Atlantis for two of those years. Not the type to go off half-cocked. He liked that phrase - Sheppard had to show him what the term referred to, but it pleased Ronon's sensibilities.

The Red territory was much quieter than the Black. There were also more lights on the streets; some seemed downright bright. And unlike the Black clan, there were no roving gangs of boys. He ran into a pair of men wandering slowly down one of those well-lit streets, once, before he could slip away. They looked him over carefully, but not threateningly, then continued on their way. They wore bands of Red and white. At another corner, concealed in deep shadow, Ronon watched another pair saunter down the street. Patrols! He realized once he ran into the third pair. The pairs of men were patrolling the territory.

With a sudden stab of curiosity, he wondered why the first pair had not challenged or questioned him. He wore no colors. He paused at the next intersection to think about it...and got his answer.

A larger group of boys was gathered in the next street, clustered around a man with slightly different colors of bands on his arm. This man - higher rank, Ronon guessed - was calling names and sending pairs into the streets. One of the men was from the first patrol that Ronon had run into and he felt the hairs on his neck prickle slightly at the recognition. He spun quickly to peer into the street he'd just walked down...and spotted the missing partner, just ducking out of sight a few buildings back. One had run around to alert his superiors, the other had been following Ronon since. Shame warred with reluctant respect - he hadn't caught on until nearly too late. That kid who'd followed him was good. Damn good, to fool him.

The commander of the patrols was almost finished deploying his men and Ronon would no doubt find himself very soon surrounded. Unless he turned their strategy against them.

He looked around and spotted a stairwell. With all the stealth he'd mastered during his years as a runner, Ronon climbed the slick metal rungs and was able to run along the roof of the building to the far side of the block. With a quick glance over the roof edge, he confirmed that the search party was working their way towards his last location. He had only to wait until the circle closed and he was outside of it to escape. And he would avoid any more patrols from now on!

There was another fire escape ladder on the opposite corner and Ronon flung his foot over to descend and begin his travel in another direction. He'd lowered himself one step when he hesitated, thinking. For a long moment he hung just below the roof, puzzling over his plan. When he reached the slimy brick street, he tucked his gun into its hidden holster, turned around the corner and headed _back_ towards the intersection he'd just left. A pair of patrol boys was stalking down the small alley just ahead of him. Amused, Ronon followed them, creeping up as close as he could get and enjoying his little prank.

When the pair left the alley, Ronon had only a second to see two other pairs milling about in the larger street, looking confused and angry, before he burst out behind them all with a leap.

"Looking for me?"

The six men jumped, whirled and gaped, but Ronon was impressed with how quickly they mastered their surprise to surround him in an assertive circle.

"You're out after curfew, friend. Would you like us to escort you back to your home? Or would you like us to escort you the hell out of our territory?" The young man who spoke used a firm, but unangry voice. All the men had their hands on their belts and Ronon saw the glitter of knives tucked away for quick retrieval.

With full enjoyment at the thought of recounting his tale to friend and movie-watching buddy, John Sheppard, Ronon raised his hands over his head in a gesture of compliance and said loudly, "My name is Ronon Dex of Atlantis. Take me to your leader."

As he was led away, the brief moment of amusement soured in his stomach. He was taking a chance. These boys hadn't attacked him yet, but he had no guarantee that the leader of this clan would show him any more consideration than the one that had stuck Sheppard. He had no guarantee that even if this Major was Cassini, that he wouldn't find a knife between his ribs once he'd been questioned.

Sheppard had only asked him to try, but Ronon agreed thoroughly with Sheppard's logic - they needed to know. This _stanga-ridden_ planet was bad luck. Atlantis needed to settle Cassini's fate and forget the place. And Ronon needed to do his part quickly. Sheppard didn't look so good back there on that old fighter's bed. He quickened his steps at the thought. The boys around him were forced into a trot to keep pace.

He was taking a chance, but it was he best path to finding out what he needed and being able to get the hell back to his friend. Ronon also came from a world where even a simple wound could lead to death from infection or side effects. Sheppard and his people sometimes took their machines and their medicines too much for granted.

"How far?" he snarled, with sudden anxiety - not for himself, but for Sheppard.

"As far as it is," replied the senior patrolman with a smirk and an attempt at bravado that failed.

"Then move faster," he said and stretched his long legs into an even quicker pace.

* * *

Hamel watched with clenched fists and heart pounding as Sheppard prepared to leave. Every thread of control he had gained over his years on the street was vibrating against the desire to scream in fury at the wounded man. How _dare_ he pretend he cared about Hamel's people. Hamel's people didn't care about each _other. _What high and mighty act was Sheppard playing at? What kind of arrogance did it take to boast about _efficient_ weapons and then offer not to use them.

Sheppard had asked Hamel what was best - as if he'd known that was the only question he could answer truthfully. Hamel hadn't lied - he'd omitted, implied, but never lied. What was best for Hamel's people was to throw Sheppard into the big angle and hope Dashal would rise above his tenuous beginnings.

Or was it?

Sheppard's people, Rodney the loud one and the woman Teyla, helped their Prime into his boots and shoulder holster device, got him water, and generally proved with every act of support that the man wasn't fit to lead so much as a whelp to a whore house. Hamel could sense their disapproval at Sheppard's choice as they worked. And yet, he was absolutely in command. Their defiance was based on concern, but what the stang was their obedience based on? He couldn't figure out their angles! It was as confusing as the behavior of the Second.

Hamel spun in a fretful circle as he waited and pulled out his knife, the one he'd been balancing when these people arrived. He flipped the blade, felt it slap against his palm, then flipped it again in a complicated pass to his other hand. The blade flashed in the lamplight of his comfortable room. Or was the room as cold and bare as it always had been and he was the one who'd gotten comfortable? Too comfortable with the brutality he claimed to despise. The knife flashed again, this time over his shoulder and back into his throwing hand.

"You're good with that thing," Sheppard's voice interrupted his furious concentration on the skill that usually calmed him. "We're ready to go," he added, sounding determined.

Hamel caught the blade from its last arc and found himself clenching it in a cutting grip. Sheppard was on the edge of the bed, ready to stand, his people on either side. Hamel wanted to see a man weakened by wound and fever, pitiful and deserving of a quicker death than Salma's blade had managed. And in fact, Sheppard _was_ flushed with the heat of infection, his face slick with a sheen of perspiration. But there was no defeat in his eyes. The man's confidence was, frankly, terrifying.

"You said you could help with the 'feeling like crap' part?" Sheppard prompted as Hamel struggled to control his conflicting thoughts.

"You ready?"

"Go for it," was the light reply.

Hamel reached out and concentrated on the man's pain. The angry throbbing of the man's middle was already compressed as tightly as he dared, so he went after the smaller aches of fever and blood loss and tension. It was a delicate thing. Hamel could push the body so numb that it relaxed completely and forgot to do important things like breathe and beat the heart. It would be so easy to nudge Sheppard into the quiet of death at the levels he was pushing at. He could modify Reema's plan slightly and give Dashal the Prime without forcing an open confrontation - he had only to prove Sheppard wouldn't return to claim his challenge. It would be easy, simple. Better for Sheppard, even. And it would get the infuriatingly confusing man out of his home and out of his life...

When Sheppard sagged suddenly into Rodney's grip, Hamel stopped instead. Sheppard blinked hard a few times and shook his head like he was shaking off a blow. He couldn't do it - he couldn't take the man's life in cold blood. Not after Sheppard had trusted _him._

"That's just weird," Sheppard said finally. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, and stood for a moment, gathering his courage. When he strode across the room, however, his steps were firm. "After you."

Hamel responded by pulling his own coat over his shoulders and unlocking the door.

He led the group into the streets, finding his dance as he worked his way through the cold mist that had fallen over the city. To his surprise, the three trailing him walked as quiet a dance as he did and Hamel even caught the woman mimicking his tendency to pause at intersections. She kept a close eye and one hand on Sheppard. Hamel could tell that Sheppard's dance was off due to injury and the side effects of Hamel's gift, but he could also tell that Sheppard knew the dance. Rodney-the-loud-one walked down the street like a bull through a herd of cows, but Hamel was shocked when it was him who called out a soft warning a heartbeat before Hamel himself.

"There are three people hiding in the next intersection!"

"Stay back," Hamel hissed, struggling to hide his surprise. He left Rodney and the woman at Sheppard's side and walked to the crack of darkness between buildings. He found his dance going assertive and checked his desire to take out his frustration on the boys hiding there. "Come out, whelps," he ordered, once he was close enough. Three sulky yellow-bands left the shadows, glaring at Hamel.

"You trying to make it easy for us, old-timer," one of the youngsters mouthed off, flashing his knife in a display that even his friends recognized as whelpy.

Hamel pulled out his own knife, flipped it from hand to hand, then over his shoulder in a return display of rather more impressive skill. The boys gaped. "No, just passing through. You planning trouble for me and my friends? 'Cause next time one of you is sliced up, I just might not be at home. You know?"

Hamel slid his eyes to the boy he recognized - Timero. He'd been in Hamel's room a month ago watching an older brother die from a knife through the eye. The boy had the good manners to look embarrassed.

"I know, old man." Timero put his knife away, and said with more wisdom than his years deserved, "Hamel's OK. If he says he's just passing through, he's playing his angle straight with us."

"Thanks," Hamel answered quickly, not bothering to wait for the friends' answers. He waved Sheppard and the others past, but kept the whelps in sight, just in case. A night like tonight brought out the stupid in lots of people. Maybe even himself.

Only when they were well past did he return to the front and take the lead again. Whether from nerves or concern, he found himself walking close to the strangers, making note of Sheppard's condition. The wounded man was breathing heavily, as if the brisk walk they were taking were instead a flat-out run. His face glistened in the rare lamplight and he leaned heavily on Telya's shoulder, who also had an arm around his waist. Hamel slowed his pace even further and drew closer. They were almost at the crossroads, anyway.

"You're...good with those...kids," Sheppard panted. Hamel shrugged.

"Know most of them, the ones on the street anyway. If they don't make it through my door with a knife in them, they come in with a friend."

"You...got any...kids of your...own?"

Hamel felt his face heat and he almost drew on Sheppard, Reema's plan be damned.

"No. And it's none of your damned business, outsider!"

"Jeez...just asking," Sheppard muttered, but he wasn't through, "'cause it seems like you could do a lot more for these kids than wait til they show up already sliced."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like give them something more useful to do than frighten women and ambush strangers."

"That simple, huh?"

"No. Never said it was simple."

"I tried it that way, once." Hamel snapped, going for churlish and managing only plaintive. They passed several buildings in angry silence.

"Once?" Sheppard prompted. _Damn the nosy bastard whelp!_ Hamel's answer dripped with bitterness.

"I took in a whelp and trained him up to be a good lad. We were going to make a difference, him and I. He was going to start a new clan and I was going to teach. And then Salma challenges the last Prime and takes over. I opened my big mouth, tried to talk Salma out of murdering the Seconds and double-black-bandeds. I think he won't cross me, see? I already got a good thing going with my gift. Salma might need me some day."

Hamel's throat closed and he stalked on in silence.

"So Salma made an example of your son, instead," Sheppard finished softly. Hamel shook with rage. Sheppard had puzzled out the ending so easily.

"Um...Sheppard?" Rodney-the-loud-one interrupted, sounding nervous. Hamel just walked on, furious he'd said so much, wishing he hadn't said anything.

"Salma was a brutal bastard," Sheppard finally said, true sympathy in his voice.

The crossroads were just ahead. Hamel could see the glow of the unusually bright lighting against the misty sky.

"Um...SHEPPARD!" the loud one interjected again.

"What, Rodney?!"

"There are at least twenty people on the square up ahead."

Hamel felt the group of strangers stop in their tracks.

"It's OK," he lied for the first time since he'd met these people. The words tasted dry in his mouth. "It's only Reema and her brothers. They're all friends. This is where we're going."

For a heartbeat, the strangers hesitated, then Hamel heard Sheppard take a shuffling step and follow again. A horrible ache sank into Hamel's chest. He almost wished Sheppard had turned and run, so he could be hunted down as a coward. Instead, the man had taken his word and trusted him...again.

He walked into the open and crossed the crumbling brick pavement until he stood face to face with Reema. Three of her brothers were gathered behind her, Dashal was at her side. Ten or so other boys wearing orange and double-black were loosely spread through the wide city square - a gathering of four major roads into one massive intersection. Lamps were hung on all the street posts and a bonfire burned fiercely in the exact center. The crossroads had been a traditional gathering place for clan "meetings" and formal challenges for a hundred years.

Reema smiled at him, but Hamel found no joy in her gratitude. "Where's Johar?" he asked for something to say. The man was as much brother to Reema as Lars. He was supposed to have been sent to assassinate Selak before the gathering. His absence was ominous. Reema's smile vanished.

"He got crossed out jibbing Selak. They both died."

"Dammit, Reema - !" _How many more had to die before they would have peace?_

"He died for this, Hamel. Dashal wants it. Sheppard is the only one who stands in our way..." Her voice trailed off and her voice sounded odd, like she was thinking about something else. "Dashal will be Prime, Hamel. It's what we've waited for for so long. This is our victory as much as it is Dashal's."

Her bright, determined eyes flicked behind him and Hamel turned to see Sheppard and Teyla and Rodney slowly following his lead into the light. With effort, he stepped into line beside Reema and crossed his arms.

Sheppard stopped, too, then took one more deliberate step, placing himself in front of his friends. The dance was both authoritative and protective and Hamel's ache grew sharper.

"What's going on?" Sheppard demanded. Dashal answered.

"I claim Prime of the Black Clan. As the challenger who defeated Prime Salma, you stand in my way."

"I see," Sheppard said softly and closed his eyes briefly, as if merely weary from his walk. When he opened them again, he looked straight at Hamel. Hamel expected to see anger, betrayal, maybe even fear. Instead, the look that Sheppard wore seared into Hamel's soul more deeply than any knife had ever cut - it was...disappointment. And Hamel felt ashamed.

Sheppard looked away, reached inside his jacket as if pressing against his wound, and then put his hands at his side.

"I see," he repeated.

* * *

Ronon was led to a large brick building that reminded him of Reema's bar. It was single story and wide, and like Reema's, filled with lamp light and many voices. Once he stepped through the door, however, all resemblance faded. This building was a command center. Instead of clusters of boys drinking together, there were four or five stations of boys and men gathered around various activities. The closest group looked like they were sparring, one of the older men acting as instructor or mentor. Another group was huddled around papers on a table, and a third group was kibitzing over a pile of knives and other weapons.

A little bell of recognition went off in Ronon's head and he realized that - aside from the fact that all these men…and in this clan, women...wore regular clothes and were younger than average - the activities he saw could have been taking place anywhere within Atlantis's military garrison. He felt he had Sheppard's answer even before he was tugged towards a small group in the far corner and held firmly while one of his escort approached a man leaning over another table with his back turned.

"Major, he says he wants to see you." The man nodded, straightened and turned.

It took Ronon a moment to catch his breath. "Major Cassini," he managed at last. It was undoubtedly him. Ronon recognized the man's square jaw and deeply furrowed brow, but a savage scar along the left side of the man's face and brutally scarred left eye socket was a startling new feature on the man's once handsome face. Ronon was certain that the eye underneath the lumpy and permanently sealed eyelid was completely gone. Cassini's vivid green, remaining eye widened in surprise. Ronon saw a host of emotion flash over the Major's face before he, too, rasped out Ronon's name.

"Took you damn long enough to show up," the Major added, his voice tight but carefully neutral.

"We've tried three times. First flyby saw no sign of your transmitter which usually means - "

"Dead or gone."

"Yeah, but Sheppard sent Zander's team anyway a short time later. They got into it with another clan their first day. Couldn't get any straight answers after that and aborted. We had to leave Atlantis for a few months so Sheppard brought us here himself this time. You, ah... you got quite a setup going."

Cassini just nodded, but his expression had softened slightly. "It was easy to take over, once I was trying to. These people were living like packs of wild dogs, no security, no organization. No politics except survival of the fittest. When...Atlantis didn't come, I got tired of watching." He looked around at the busy industry of the people in his command. "They were desperate for any kind of leadership. We've done good work in the last couple of months - patrols police our territory and keep the civilians safe from gangs and other clans. The younger boys are learning they have other options than to kill for what they want." He trailed off, an expression of pride on his face that was reflected in the men around him that were watching and listening.

But the moment passed and the Major's stern frown returned. He seemed distracted, or confused...or both. He stepped back to the table he had been leaning over and began rifling through pages, a soft dismissal.

"But you've come at a hell of a time. Black Clan just had a surprise upset of their Prime. They're fighting it out over there like cats over tunafish. Tell Sheppard thanks for dropping in, but I'm a little busy." He turned his back, then spoke over his shoulder, as if only mildly curious, "Where is the Colonel anyway?"

"Hamel's. Some old knife fighter in Black territory." Ronon waited. He didn't trust Cassini. The man had been through some kind of hell and Ronon didn't know what he expected from Atlantis. He was acting like a man who didn't know himself. Cassini stiffened.

"Hamel's? Who sent you to Hamel's?"

"Reema, the woman who runs the local bar. Sheppard was injured in an ambush. _He_ killed the Black Prime in self defense."

Cassini whirled and glared at Ronon as if he was trying to confirm the truth of Ronon's statement straight from his head. "Injured badly?"

"Bad enough."

Cassini's jaw worked for a few seconds and Ronon recognized a man wrestling with conflicted loyalties.

"Hamel's good people," Cassini said softly at last, as if to himself. "Sheppard is safe there. Can you get him back to your jumper?"

"We were dropped. Jumper will come back in eight hours. If he makes it til then, we'll get him to the jumper, with or without you." Ronon floated the hint, watching closely, but Cassini didn't take the bait. He just looked thoughtful, like a man revising a plan. With a nod to himself he shot a look at one of his men.

"Sheppard is safe at Hamel's," he repeated. "Go back to him if you want. If I can make it there before your jumper arrives, I'll come by. Don't wait for me." He waved and Ronon realized that the group of men around them had grown to about twenty and that they were all geared with knives and home carved clubs. At the wave, they gathered into a close circle, looking expectantly at Cassini.

"Where are you going? What are you doing?"

Cassini drew out his own knife, checked the blade for sharpness, then shoved it into its sheath again.

"Our intel says the Black Clan is gathering at the crossroads. They will choose a new Prime tonight." He snapped an old canvas coat over his belt and finally met Ronon's gaze with a determined expression, all the more fierce on the scarred face. "And Red will be there when they do."


	5. Chapter 5

"I see," said Sheppard.

"_What_ do you see, old-timer?"

Sheppard rolled his eyes at Dashal's taunt and Hamel flicked an angry look at Reema. It was bad enough that the boy had to earn his title by crossing out a wounded man. He didn't have to humiliate him, too. Reema just looked pleased.

"I see that I should have been more careful who I take advice from." Hamel twitched.

"You did the Black Clan a favor, stranger. Salma was Prime too long. Our clan suffered too long. I'll cross you out quick for that."

Hamel kept frowning. Dashal's offer was good - Sheppard deserved quick and painless - but his tone was arrogant.

"Oh, I'll not be crossing any death...angles...whatever you call them tonight, kid. Quick or otherwise."

"You want to fight?" Dashal was clearly impressed and flicked a look at Reema who was now frowning, too.

Sheppard cocked his head as if he were thinking about it. "Nah. Not really. Normally, you know, I'd love to show you a thing or two - knock you down a peg and slap that attitude out of you. But I make it a policy to stick to one 'duel to the death' per month. I'm over quota."

"...what?"

"Tell you what. You want to be Prime? You go ahead. I surrender, give up. Or, you know, whatever groveling you need to feel all superior again."

"You yield the challenge?"

"Sure. I yield the challenge. You have fun being Prime."

Dashal stood uncertainly for a long moment and Hamel's heart leapt with hope. Why...hadn't he thought of this?

"How do I know you're not going to cross me out once my back is turned?" Dashal demanded.

"Look, I know you're very impressed with yourself and worked very hard to earn "all this", but the truth is, I don't want your job. I'm just passing through. In a little over...seven hours, I'll be gone for good. I won't cross you or anyone else on this friendly little planet." Sheppard took one more step and his expression turned hard. "You should take the offer, kid. Some advice from an old...let's make that _older_ 'Prime' to a new one: Always take an offer to sort things out without a fight. A fight might not go the way you want. Salma's didn't," he finished with a deadly soft growl.

Hamel continued to feel a flutter of…something. Sheppard's delivery was perfect - warning without insult. He'd given Dashal the opportunity to accept the yield and even look good doing it, but he'd also thrown out a hell of an angle. With a shiver down his spine, Hamel had the strangest notion that, even in his weakened condition, Sheppard would win a challenge. With a sudden insight, Hamel looked closely and saw that Sheppard was holding something in the hand he'd put in his jacket earlier - the club from the shoulder device?

Dashal must have also felt the man's confidence because the cocky tilt to his stance went stiff, his knife went defensive, but there was conflicted consideration on the young face. For a shining moment, Hamel saw a future for the clan under a Prime who had started his leadership with an act of compassion.

"He's the challenger," Reema spoke into the breathless tension, her voice encouraging but hard. "You seek the Prime, you must be strong. Johar crossed over to make this happen tonight. Don't throw it away."

And with those words, the vision crumbled and the weight of a century of violence and distorted justice swept over Dashal. His expression hardened and he slid into an aggressive dance, lining Sheppard up. Sheppard's dance finally looked a little bit tense. His friends were shooting worried looks at the crowd of boys moving into a loose circle around them. Some of the young men looked excited, some were looking grim and disturbed. Hamel knew all of them. They had all been born on the streets. Most had watched friends and color-mates die on his blankets.

Dashal moved onto his toes, gathering himself like a snake for the strike. He would take the Prime handed to him by treachery and begin it with an act of cowardice. It never changes, Hamel thought. The flicker of hope that Sheppard had kindled died and left nothing but cold despair.

It never changes.

It never will.

* * *

_ Crap._

John saw Dashal's expression go predatory and he knew he'd lost the argument. The stupid status code these kids lived by apparently trumped common sense. He could guess how it would play out. _Good one, John_, he thought with an angry jolt of rebuke. He hadn't avoided a fight at all...he'd let himself get duped into the middle of one. He flicked a look at Teyla, saw her hand on her sticks. Rodney was twitching, his hand jerking in and out of his jacket. His own hand was damp from his death grip on the M11 at his side. He decided to try one last time.

"I don't want to be Prime. Let me and my people go and I promise you'll never see us again. If you don't...you really won't like what happens."

Again, Dashal hesitated ever so slightly and John felt for the kid, if only just a little. He'd been a mouthy lieutenant once who hadn't figured out yet that it took _more_ courage to walk away from a fight you didn't have to finish in the name of pride. Dashal didn't waste any more effort on conversation. He lunged, closing for a killing strike.

Teyla was faster. With a single step and a fluid counter attack, she knocked aside Dashal's knife and followed with a blow to the boy's head. Her sticks flashed in the bonfire light. Dashal staggered back, more stunned from the shock of her interference than from the blow. His nose dribbled a trickle of blood, but John was pretty sure she'd pulled her punch – he was still conscious, after all.

"Here's another bit of advice, Dashal is it?" John added as Teyla remained firmly in place, sticks in ready position. "A good friend at your side is more important than all the fancy titles put together."

"You're interfering with a challenge, woman. Move aside." Teyla just cocked her head and kept her cool gaze upon him. John answered for her.

"So _now_ you're interested in 'fair'? You're just as big a bully as Salma, changing the rules to suit yourself." He knew the insult would enrage the boy, but he needed to keep it personal. As much as he would _really _like to just shoot the kid, he had to keep this from turning into a shoot-out that might provoke a mob frenzy. And maybe, someone in the crowd would wake up and call the guy on his hypocrisy. His eyes flicked to Hamel at the thought. The old fighter was standing stiff as a statue, his jaw locked so tight, John thought he might lose a few molars.

Predictably, Dashal spat a local curse and lunged again. Teyla drove him back, but not before Dashal had danced through her first counters and forced John to take a step in his own defense. He'd adapted quickly. Dashal prowled just outside Teyla's range, his face gone still with thought. At last he looked into the crowd surrounding them.

"Lars, Gorden, help me get the coward out of his mommy's skirts."

The two he'd called out took a step forward, then hesitated, uncertain about how to do what they'd been asked.

"Who's the coward?" John called quickly, still desperately trying to keep the others out of it, "You can't take care of a woman yourself? Sorry Teyla!" he added with true apology. He hated having to use the locals' bigotry against her.

"These boys do not frighten me."

"Have I told you lately how much I like having you on my team?"

"Not recently enough."

"My bad."

"Do it!" Dashal shouted, his voice hoarse.

All three men rushed her at once, knives flashing. Cheers rose up from the crowd as the clan encouraged their own against the strangers. Teyla's sticks were a blur against the thrusting arms and grunting men. She got in a hard strike and one of them went down, stunned. The other exchanged a look with Dashal who nodded. A little bell of warning went off and John raised his gun, but not quite soon enough. Dashal made a few tepid swipes until Teyla had been drawn a step further away and then he dove straight at John.

John flung himself back as he had Salma's attack and sidestepped. The motion, which should have been effortless, instead twisted at his wound, and John suddenly felt like his side was being torn open. He could feel the skin and damaged muscle ripping wider and a warm gush of blood seeped into his beltline. The step became a stumble and he dropped to one knee, curling around his side, terrified he'd find himself inside out. The thick, absorbent fabric of his borrowed sweater was growing dark with a widening wet stain.

Dashal's lunge had been ill-prepared or the falter would have ended things right there. As it was, Dashal skidded past as John dropped and had to turn for a followup slash. With only a moment for regret, John lined up his M11 on the boy's chest.

A loud crack of gunfire shattered the misty night. Dashal jerked and froze mid-strike and John blinked. He hadn't pulled the trigger yet.

"Stop right there, or the next one's through your head, Mr. thug...kid...psycho boy."

John twisted to see Rodney hovering close by, his own M11 thrust out in a two-fisted grip and aimed at Dashal.

"What was that noise?" Dashal demanded, wary but not very frightened.

It suddenly hit John - These kids don't play with guns. They don't really know what the danger is!

"Projectile weapon," John snarled, earning a snarl in return. "Nasty device that's like a hundred tiny knives you can throw with force and accuracy up to a mile away!" Ok, that was all exaggeration, but as long as he was trying to scare them... Dashal looked skeptical so John sighted down his arm and pulled the trigger on a lamp at the far side of the square. The glass shattered and the whole lamp fell to the ground with a flare of flame and shards.

The crowd around John and Rodney and Teyla murmured nervously, but didn't retreat as John had hoped. Dashal stood glaring, growing angrier the further things got from the plan that had obviously been promised him. John gritted his teeth and heaved himself back to both feet, his arm wrapped tightly around his middle. He kept his weapon steady on Dashal's chest who'd at least learned a little respect for it.

"Now. I've made it clear that I yield. I could have killed you ten minutes ago if I wanted your job. I could kill you now, but I won't need to if you just _do the right thing_. We're leaving. Teyla, help me." He jerked his chin, hoping to hell he'd managed to finally convince the kid that letting them go was the easier path, that he'd take John's yield as a win. Dashal remained frozen, anger mixed with indecision. The crowd around them rustled and moved, casting weird double and triple shadows in the multiple lamplight. A split second of hope seemed to ripple through the cold air.

Teyla took one step and then yelped.

"Teyla?!"

John whirled, sighted, and fired. The man who had grabbed her from behind spun out of sight with a graze in his arm. There was another yelp, clatter and scuffle at his back and he turned again to see Rodney wrestling with three men, his gun on the ground and his hand around his wrist.

"Back off!"

John fired again, clipped the closest man, but didn't have a wounding shot at the others without taking out Rodney, too. His arm was shaking, and he felt himself hunching against the phantom pressure in his middle that was building as if it would burst. So much for hope. _How the hell did I let this happen?_ He readjusted and pulled the trigger on the tallest boy, a little piece of him dying along with the kid who was flung away from Rodney with a bullet in his ear. He could hear Teyla's sticks thumping against flesh behind him, and her breath coming in grunts of effort.

"Back off!" he cried again. His voice was hoarse and he heard the frustration in it. From outside the circle of chaos he was within, John heard another faint voice, equally frustrated, echo with, "Stop! Don't!"

Rodney had almost squirmed away from the remaining boy who cursed and gave up trying to keep him still. Instead, the kid re-gripped his knife and drew his elbow back for a thrust that would rip out Rodney's spleen. John sighted at the boy's exposed ribcage and pulled the trigger. A violent jerk against his arm knocked the gun aside at the same moment and his fingers let go of the grip as if of their own accord.

John's bullet nicked the kid in his shoulder instead of taking out his heart, but the deep graze at least stopped him from shish-ka-bobbing Rodney. John looked stupidly at his arm to find out why he'd dropped his gun. A small knife stuck out of his jacket sleeve, buried to the haft in leather and flesh. He felt a weird combination of heat and pressure in the place and couldn't decide if Hamel was sucking out the pain, or if he was just too messed up with shock and fever to feel it.

Either way, he'd lost. These boys were too street savvy to lose the moment of advantage. Two sets of strong hands grabbed him and he was forced onto his knees. Not that he'd have been standing for much longer, anyway. The knife was yanked out of his arm and he growled at the discomfort. He could feel the sweater sleeve soaking up more of his blood. Teyla and Rodney were subdued a moment later and pulled away.

Reema stepped forward and looked down at him. With a sudden jolt of understanding, he realized that she had gone around Dashal and coordinated the group assault. He recognized the men holding him and Rodney as the ones that had been standing next to her. He shot Hamel a scathing look. The man stood by himself now, his face pale and furious, his fist clenched around a small knife.

Reema took the knife that had been sticking out of his arm and tucked it into her own sheath. There was something like admiration or regret in her eyes, but the words she spoke were uncomforting.

"_Stanga_, Dashal. You need your kill brought to you like a prowler brings its babies wounded birds. Kill him and take Prime before you embarrass yourself further."

Dashal stood frozen in his spot, glowing with fury. John could almost read his mind. If he didn't kill John, he'd face Reema and her brothers' ire - the kid clearly had figured out the politics.

"Now who's hiding in his mommy's skirts," John growled quickly...desperate. "It's not too late to make your own choice."

Dashal clenched his knife tightly, then stepped forward. John idly wondered which path the young street fighter would choose, politics or pride.

"You were right about having friends, stranger," Dashal said, trying for cocky and managing enough to crush all hope out of John. He'd chosen politics.

"I was also right about things not going the way you wanted." He turned a slow knowing look at Reema and cocked an eyebrow. His final words dripped with warning. "You should have let us go."

A flicker of confusion, then understanding flashed in Dashal's eyes. He curled his lip in a snarl and drew his arm back for that final thrust.

"No!" John yelled and jerked against his captors, unable to relent, to take the blow without a fight, even as hopeless as it seemed. He saw Teyla and Rodney also struggling, saw Teyla wrench free of her captors and lunge closer – but she was too far, too late. He yanked harder and one hand slipped free. John reached for his knife at the same moment Dashal's thrust connected with his chest.

John drew and shoved upwards, pushing himself away with the same motion. Dashal gasped and fell forward. They landed in a heap and John's side tore open a little further. A rush of dizziness sucked the street and the lamps and the voices and the cold night air away from him. He tried to draw a breath but the fall knocked the wind out of him and he couldn't move. There was a strange new pressure along his left ribcage - or maybe that was just the weight of Dashal's body that still lay heavily over him. He couldn't feel anything but cold moisture soaking into his pants and hot moisture dripping across his middle.

Shadows hovered over him. He had a vague notion that there was shouting and wild activity around him. Dashal's limp form was eventually pulled off, but he couldn't tell by who. He focused with effort on the shape that was bending closer and his heart beat faster in fear - true honest fear - because he knew that he had nothing left to give.

"Bloody Ancestors, Sheppard, are you still alive?" was the thing he heard first, just as the face came into focus.

It was Hamel.

* * *

_I was also right about things not going the way you wanted._

Hamel watched the fight unfold like a sleepwalker watches a nightmare. Time and time again, Sheppard gave Dashal a chance to take a new path. And each time Dashal threw it away. Reema threw it away. The Black clan was squandering the first chance at hope Hamel had seen since his son died.

When Reema's brothers grabbed the strangers, Hamel screamed his frustration. "Stop! Don't!" He was as surprised as the rest - despite the demonstration - when Sheppard's weapon began to drop the boys one by one as easily as if he were pointing a finger. His heart twisted in anger as more of his people died with the learning. And yet again, there'd been an undercurrant of hope - Hamel could feel the boys around him shifting, almost ready to bolt, almost willing to be forced into the path that Sheppard was driving at them. Maybe Sheppard could pull them back to the path even yet.

Reema herself flung the knife that silenced the advantage.

Sheppard was forced to his knees. "This is no challenge," he growled as Sheppard's eyes raked over him, "this is an execution."

"I was also right about things not going the way you wanted. You should have let us go," Sheppard told Dashal, but he was speaking straight to Hamel's heart.

Something like fury only more painful strangled Hamel from the inside out. He knew, in that instant, with those deadly words that Dashal was going to die. That Sheppard _ would_ win the challenge. Sheppard had already won.

When Dashal lunged and Sheppard countered, Hamel was already moving. Another Prime of the Black Clan fell to Sheppard's knife and the two collapsed in a heap on the wet concrete. Sheppard had won - even dead, Sheppard had won. There was a moment of stunned silence as the clan held it's breath, waiting for Dashal to move, to get back up. It was the swish before the thud. All hell broke loose once it sank in.

Shouts of disbelief and angry grief sang out. Hamel could hear someone berating Lars who'd let Sheppard's arm jerk free and in the confusion of accusation and jostling and shoving, he saw the woman Teyla, slip to Sheppard's side and drop beside him, her sticks in one hand and a knife in the other. Niether Dashal nor Sheppard had moved a whisker since they fell, but Hamel almost thought that he saw the woman touch Sheppard's neck and...smile. _Bloody ancestors...?_

"Krale, go help Mika," Hamel murmured to one of the boys who was still shocked motionless as he passed. _Give them something more useful to do... _The boy turned wide eyes on him, then blinked.

"Ok, Hamel," he muttered and went to the man who's shoulder was bleeding heavily from Sheppard's weapon. Hamel moved closer to the cluster around Sheppard that was getting more worked up.

"Timero, Haffa, get something to put over Stev." Again the boys he'd addressed shuffled off as he'd asked.

Shouting from the street beyond the crossroads distracted him. Hamel paused and spotted two sweaty, breathless yellow-bands pelting across the plaza, yelling their heads off as they came.

"The Major! The Red Clan!"

The boy who'd been shouting shoved his way through the back of the crowd and froze when he hit the swirl of chaos and the the leader he'd been seeking lying motionless - dead - on the ground. He flicked terrified eyes at Reema, then at Lars, then spun as if looking for someone, anyone, to deliver his message to. Hamel hesitated for a heartbeat, felt a surge of strength as his path opened up before him and he beckoned the kid closer. "Hamel, they're coming here, all dressed for a dance!"

"How many?" Hamel asked, trying to keep his voice calm. He was terrified, but not by the Red Clan.

"Twenty. And the Major himself. I saw the Major."

Hamel put his hand on the boy's shoulder to calm and reassure him. "Come with me," he said. He lowered his shoulder and shoved past a pair of double-blacks, dragging the runner along with him. Rodney-the-loud-one had also escaped in the melee and he, too, knelt beside Sheppard in a protective crouch. He was holding one of the noisy weapons in twitchy, nervous hands. Boys were pairing up and shouting. It was a tangle of angles and getting hotter by the moment. As concerned as he was by the probably-not-coincidental appearance of Red, Hamel was almost grateful for the distraction.

_Something more useful to do than slice on each other..._

"Kennon!" Hamel bellowed at the two men that had taken it the farthest. He pushed closer to be heard. "Back away, Edger!"

Most of the others had started to clear room for the fight and heads turned his way. When Kennon twisted up a furious scowl and shoved Edger backwards, Hamel flipped his knife to a throwing grip.

"I said, back away!"

Even Hamel was surprised by the force of his bellow and there was a lull as more heads turned, including Edger's. Kennon took the opportunity and lunged at his antagonist, reaching for a slash across the other man's face. Hamel was faster. Still moving forward, he flung his blade and it sank into Kennon's arm, fouling the strike. Kennon yelped and yanked the knife out, then stood glaring as blood dripped through his fingers. Edger skittered away into the crowd. Hamel drew his second knife. All eyes were on him, now. He held the moment then pulled the little yellow-band, in front of him.

"Tell us what you saw," Hamel said loudly. The kid gulped.

"We was playing near the borders, hoping to catch a trespasser for fun. Twenty Orange bands or more from Red went by in a wind. They're coming here, Hamel! We ran like rabbits to get here first!"

"You did good, Asher," Hamel soothed as the boys stirred again, this time more fearful than angry. He scanned the crowd for faces he knew and could trust. "Fry, Timero, Radin, Mummo, Lars," he called, and saw each man react with curiosity as they heard their name. "Take two men each and spread out around the square. Lars, Fry, you hide yours at the East corners. Let Red pass on by, then flank them."

The crowd got noisy again, this time with murmurs of approval and the pleased grunts of the boys who had just gotten themselves some rank .

"I SAID, _let them pass by_. Once we've got them surrounded...wait for my say before you cross any angles with them. They may want to talk, first."

"What the hell?! They're the ones tresspassing!" Someone shouted. "We should take them out!"

Hamel spun, lined up and threw. The Orange-band who'd mouthed off squawked as Hamel's blade stuck into the thick leather belt the boy was wearing, just where he'd wanted it to go. The knife quivered for a second, then fell to the ground. He'd not thrown hard enough to penetrate, just to thump him a bit.

"I said we wait!" Hamel bellowed again as he calmly walked over to pick up his knife. He flipped it from hand to hand. He had their attention again. "The first whelp that starts something without my say-so gets MY knife in their neck. Clear?"

"Sure."

"Whatever, old man."

Hamel was satisfied with the sulky answers for now. "Then go."

He waited until he was sure that the boys were concentrating on his orders and not on slicing each other again before he turned around. He had one more thing to know before he could deal with Red.

Hamel knelt just as the woman and Rodney-the-loud-one were bullying two boys to heave Dashal's limp body off of their friend. Their faces were twisted in worry and fear and...and yet... Sheppard groaned slightly and a foot twitched once he was free. Hamel's lips split into a grin. He leaned closer, watching the stranger's face. The man's eyes focused with difficulty, but Hamel could see life in them.

"Bloody Ancestors, Sheppard, are you still alive?"

"You...tell...me..." was the breathy reply and Hamel's grin grew wider. He was shoved aside momentarily as the man's friends dropped back at his side. Dashal's knife skipped along the ribcage to lodge in the muscle just under Sheppard's leather holster. There was blood soaking the sweater, but Hamel could see by the haft's angle, that the knife wasn't deeply wedged. In fact, it fell to the ground at the woman's gentle probing touch.

Hamel reached and touched Sheppard's face, pushing a little more of the pain away, marveling at the resistance he still felt every time he touched the man's mind. Sheppard sighed, and began to breathe a little easier.

"They're coming!" a shout rose from around him.

"Finish him!" came another voice, from much closer. Hamel lifted his eyes to find Reema standing a few feet away, her fists clenched, her face dark with a furious mixture of anger and grief. She'd been closer to Dashal than him..a mistake, he realized with the brightness of a lantern on his ass. Hamel hadn't let himself get close to any of the whelps since Jonah. He looked back at Sheppard.

"We need him."

Sheppard moved and growled a little more, shaking off the worst of the shock from his fall. Teyla was tearing strips of cloth she'd found from somewhere - some_one_ he realized as he caught a couple of the younger boys huddled close, jumping at her every command - and handing them to Rodney who was mopping up the blood on Sheppard's chest.

"If you won't finish him, I will," Reema added softly and she lifted one of the weapons that had been taken from Sheppard and Rodney.

Hamel didn't have time to wonder how she knew how to hold the weapon or make it work. He just saw the intent in her eyes and remembered Stev crumpling from the thing's blast. Hamel raised his own knife with a speed he hadn't used in many years. Reema was too far away for a slash, so he flipped the blade and flung it in the most difficult throw he'd ever attempted. The knife flew true to land, haft first, against Reema's wrist with bruising force. She yelped and dropped the weapon where it fell with a loud clatter onto the cobblestones. Rodney quickly scooped it up to turn it back on her, his eyes wide with alarm and gratitude in equal measure.

"Thanks," Sheppard whispered.

"I need you," Hamel said by way of explanation. "The Red Clan and your Major are bringing a party to the crossroads. I've deployed the boys to defend themselves, but... I'd rather settle things without a fight." Sheppard narrowed his eyes as he caught the deliberate reference. "Besides," he went on, "if this man really is one of your people, then you owe me."

"I _owe_ you alright..." Sheppard chuffed and muttered what was probably a very pretty curse in his own language. When he closed his eyes and breathed deeply a few times, Hamel recognized a man working up his courage. When he opened them, they were again determined with that glint of strength and confidence that seemed bottomless in this man. Hamel stood, bent over and extended his hand.

"We need you," he repeated.

* * *

John took the hand and found Teyla's shoulder under his arm as well. He shot her a look of gratitude then almost quelled at her look of furious worry. And she maybe had a point. Once they heaved him standing, he sagged for many long, deep breaths, waiting out a massive rush of dizziness.

"John -" Teyla began softly and he squeezed her a little tighter in reassurance.

"I know. Let me sort out Cassini and I promise I'll go pass out like a good little stabbing victim for the rest of our wait." He glanced down at himself and saw the large splotches of blood on his sweater and sticky trails dribbling out from under his sleeve. "Multiple stabbings victim," he muttered with disgust.

"I'll send a boy to ask the Major to meet at the bonfire," Hamel said at his side. All business. John sighed and shored up both his courage and his remaining strength. Hamel's mojo was keeping him from screaming his head off, but he was down a few pints and he could feel the heat behind his eyes of the fever taking solid hold. He was confident for Teyla's sake, but a small seed of terror was growing in his chest. Six hours was a long time to wait when you're bleeding out.

"Great," was what he said instead. "Let's go."

They made it just to the far side of the blazing fire when a pack of boys jogged out of the darkened East street into the light. They immediately spread out around the Eastern perimeter, inside the circle of Hamel's boys. They were dressed like all the men they'd seen on this planet, but the bands on their arms were predominantly red with the usual variation of other colors thrown in. John watched the Black clan's reaction and gritted his teeth when they startled and all of them reached for their knives. He tugged on Hamel's arm.

"Hamel, Red has put his guys in crowd control formation - inside, blocking out the center. They're lined up to protect their boss, not start a fight. Can you hold your boys back?"

Hamel just grunted and walked away, calling names and soothing them in the gruff way John had come to recognize as Hamel being reassuring. Rodney took his place at John's elbow, holding his scanner.

"Where's the other M11," John asked suddenly. His brain must be losing oxygen.

"I've got both," Rodney answered.

"Give it," John ordered and managed to keep his feet under him long enough to take the weapon and put it loosely in its holster. He'd have rather held onto it, but his hand was shaky. "How many?"

"About twenty Red clan, close to thirty Black were already here. Hamel's got fifteen spread around the perimeter, the rest are clustered behind the fire." He glanced over his shoulder and amended, "Most of the rest."

John followed his look and felt a flicker of anger as Reema, surrounded by two of her brothers as usual, also drew near. They stopped a short distance away and John could almost feel her angry gaze boring into his head. He glared back for a moment, then turned to watch as the last of the Red intruders smoothly fell into formation. They also drew their knives. The last two figures to walk into the light of the plaza moved in a confident line towards the fire. As the glow lit the faces of the men, John's heart skipped a beat.

"Ronon!" Teyla exclaimed and waved happily.

The feeling sank a moment later as John recognized the second man.

"And Cassini," he whispered, shocked at the scars that adorned the Major's face. Cassini swept his gaze around the open space and John saw him pull the smallest of double-takes when he caught sight of them. Ronon immediately charged over and grabbed for John's shoulder once he'd rejoined his team.

"What the hell are you doing here, Sheppard?" he growled. The look he threw at Teyla was pure accusation.

"We...were invited. What the hell are _you_ doing here." Ronon shrugged.

"I found Cassini."

"I see that."

Cassini was doing a superb job of ignoring all of them. John shifted to watch. The Major paused before approaching, probably looking for someone to address. His expression flickered with something when he caught sight of Reema, but he made no other indications of his intent. He was deliberately avoiding John's gaze. Hamel was still prowling the space, calling on his people and urging them to wait but stay alert.

"What the hell is _Cassini_ doing here?" John groused.

"Beats me. He is the Red Prime, though. Doesn't seem to want to go home."

"Figures." There were some days John really wished just one thing would go right. He suddenly wondered if the Major would obey an order to stand down if he tried to send his Red kiddies into a fight. He took a deep breath. This wasn't over yet. "Let me guess...Cassini's got the Red clan whipped into shape." He was watching the Red boys' confident and watchful stances.

"Yeah. Runs it just like Atlantis. He's got patrols watching the streets and it's a lot quieter. He's proud of what he's done there."

"Who claims Prime of the Black Clan?" Cassini bellowed at last, sounding exasperated. Clearly he had expected someone to step forward by now. John had a sudden urge to claim the title just to see Cassini's expression. He'd taken out two Black Prime after all, but his eyes were on Hamel. The old knife fighter, slapped one of his boys on the arm, murmured one last word of instruction and then stalked towards the fire.

"Hamel, what the hell is going on here?" Cassini asked. Hamel scowled.

"Do I know you?"

"You do, but you don't remember. You pulled a pack of whelps off my back the night I got this," he gestured to the scars on his face. John winced. Cassini went on, though, unconcerned, still puzzled, still ignoring John. "Gave me a chance to get away. I've heard a lot about you, since."

Hamel just shrugged, unimpressed. "I stop a lot of fights that don't need to happen." He flicked a look at Sheppard. "But not enough of them. Why are you here, Red?"

"To offer my congratulations to the new Prime of Black. Red offers it's friendship. And help if necessary..." he looked like he'd added the last off the cuff, and he shot another odd look at Reema who was edging closer.

"Friendship, huh?" Hamel growled, "Salma said you've been expanding your territory for two months. How do I know you're not here looking for more streets?"

"Salma was a dumb thug. He spent more time slicing his own people than protecting them. We've formed alliances with other minor clans by making the same offer. I made _him_ the same offer. I hope your new Prime will be smart enough to take it." He looked around again. "Hamel, who the hell claims Black?"

John laughed within the quiet of his own mind at the trapped expression on Hamel's face. Sometimes just doing a thing was a lot easier than saying it. John decided to bail Hamel out.

"Tonight you'll have to talk to Hamel. Black is still trying to figure things out, here. But I'm sure that Hamel will appreciate any help we can offer him." Hamel threw John a look of sheepish gratitude. "It's good to see you alive, Cassini."

"Sheppard," Cassini intoned with a typically serious once-over, finally forced to acknowledge him. Not_ Colonel_, John noticed.

"Major," he countered with pointed use of rank, "we've been worried about you. It's time to come home, now. Put your things in order and get ready to go." John was a little too tired to beat around the bush and decided to go straight to the argument while he was still standing...or leaning on Ronon, whatever.

"No!" The shout came from behind him, and Reema suddenly flung herself into the circle of men and planted herself between John and Cassini. "No. You can't take him."

"Reema!" Cassini hissed, looking angry.

"Cross him out, Tony. Kill him and send the others away. Tell them to stop coming and leave us alone."

John stared at the angry woman in front of him and a few things started to click into place. She spoke in a tone of command, her desperation only evident in her protective stance. He kept his words for Cassini, though, "You can't stay here and keep messing with these people, Major."

"These _people_ took me in." He laid a hand on Reema's shoulder, also protective and affectionate at the same time. More was making sense. "It's been six months. I didn't think you were coming. I decided to get on with my life. What's left of it." He ducked his chin self consciously, hiding the scars from direct sight. "I understand, Major. I really do," John allowed his voice to get soft. "I got stuck for a while offworld, once. It sucks. I get that. But we're here now. It's time to go."

He felt flutters of sympathy for the guy and the memory of his time with Teer's people suddenly felt all too fresh. He _did_ get it. He knew what it was like to feel abandoned, left behind. He'd _had_ that moment when he realized that he just might have to make a new home for himself, and didn't want to...

"I made a difference, here, sir. I can keep making a difference." Cassini's glance was at Hamel, but Hamel was busy glaring at Reema. He was figuring a few things out, too.

"And I get that, too. Maybe we can find a way for you to work from Atlantis. Stay in touch, build an outpost here -"

Cassini's snort was bitter. "There's no way the SGC will let me stay active duty. Not with _this_." And this time he jabbed a thumb at his missing eye and scarred face. "I go back, I'm as good as retired."

"The SGC won't just let you stay AWOL either, Major. If you don't come voluntarily...there are other ways to bring you home." John hated getting nasty, but the guy wasn't thinking straight. He'd been through hell and had a lot shoved at him in one night.

"You _left_ me here!" Cassini growled.

"Your team took heavy losses and had to retreat. No one knew if you were dead or alive. We've been back. We've tried. But someone didn't want us to find you. Isn't that right, Reema?" The woman stiffened, grew even more tense with anger. John pressed. He had to make sure Cassini knew the whole story before he tried anything stupid, "You made sure that anyone looking for him would get into trouble, didn't you?"

Hamel suddenly lunged closer, "You! You threw Sheppard into Salma's angle hoping he'd cross him out for you. You never expected Sheppard to win!"

"I'll bet she told him about hiding behind metal buildings, too," Rodney muttered from behind John.

"And I'll bet she had something to do with how Zander's team got into trouble," Sheppard agreed. She'd been protecting Cassini all along.

"When Salma didn't do it, you pushed Dashal to kill Sheppard. You pushed him and he died for it. You would spend our boys so cheaply?! And what was next? Were you and Dashal planning to hand Black over to Red without a fight?!" Hamel was tight-jawed again and had his fist around his knife. Reema said nothing, but Cassini's grip on her shoulders went hard.

"Is this true? Reema, did you throw out angles on my people?"

"You have to stay, Tony. You have to...stay." Her voice broke but her eyes remained frighteningly fierce.

John felt that twisting in his guts again as Cassini pulled her close in a horrified embrace. And then, he realized that the twisting wasn't from sympathy or the drama unfolding in front of him. He grunted and leaned over slightly as his abdomen tried to clench the rest of his insides into a tiny ball. His time to hang around and chat was just about expired.

"We've got...a few hours," he managed to grind out. He leaned over a bit further and earned the concerned attention of both Ronon and Hamel. "Send these boys...home...quietly, then...take some time...to think...arrrrrrrrgh."

The squeezing pressure forced out all breath, and he groaned as the tension rippled along his abdomen and up his chest.

"John!"

His name was spoken by many voices, but it took everything he had to keep from pitching forward. He could feel his heart racing and his breath coming in shallow pants. Hamel's face floated into his view and he felt the touch on his mind, but the pressure didn't stop the muscle-twisting cramps.

"Darn," he whispered. He hadn't quite finished here.

For a few moments he fought the rush. Teyla and Ronon and Rodney floated in and out of his awareness, all concerned. When he sank to his knees, Ronon and Rodney sank too, arms wrapped around him in fierce support. Another cramp rippled up his middle and bent his head low. He curled against the pressure.

"How...long...jumper?" he gasped as the bonfire and the lamps and cold air began to fade.

"Six hours, Sheppard," was Ronon's worried reply.

"Tell...Cassini...has six...hours...to...think...meet..."

"Yeah, whatever. Worry about him later. _You_ have to hang in there for six hours."

A last gut-wrenching contraction forced the breath out of his lungs.

"Piece of cake," John whispered just before he passed out.


	6. Chapter 6

Hamel watched Sheppard crumple and felt a loss the likes of which he hadn't felt since Jonah died. In Sheppard, he'd caught a glimpse of what his son might have become, of what he'd hoped his son to become. With effort, Hamel forced himself to remember that Sheppard was only a few years his junior and that the man's example was for Hamel himself. He took a deep breath, focused his dance and lined up The Red Major in his angle.

"The man said to get our boys home. You going to help me do that, Red, or are you going to spill more blood tonight?"

The Major was staring at the huddle of friends hovering over Sheppard. He clutched Reema to his chest, who in turn had her face buried in his arms. Reema's twisted angles had fueled a slow burn of fury and determination in Hamel's chest. He felt betrayed, but oddly, that betrayal was driving him further down the path he'd been shoved onto. The Major sighed at last and pushed Reema to his side. He still held her hand tightly.

"No. No more bloodshed, Hamel. I meant what I said. I came to offer friendship. I...wanted to help." He looked at Sheppard again and Hamel could read the conflict on the man's face.

"Good. Then I'll start my boys cleaning up the mess around here. Probably be better if you sent yours back over the line. Some of mine might think it would be fun to start something."

"I'll do that." His lips twitched. "You calling for Prime, Hamel?"

Hamel swore a streak of his favorite profanities, then sighed. "I don't care what you call it, but I suppose I'm the one who gets to figure things out around here for a while."

"All right."

"I have no angles against Red, Major. But, for now, Black needs to build up from the inside out. We've spent too long slicing on each other. I'll welcome Red's friendship but...we're yielding no streets."

"That's all I ask, Black. All I want is a start. And good fences make good neighbors."

"What the bloody ancestors are you talking about?"

"Just a bit of wisdom from my homeworld."

"Ah. Don't call me 'Black'. Hamel will do."

"All right," The Major repeated, sounding amused. Hamel looked closely at the scarred, stern man and he saw something of Sheppard in the expression. There was something extraordinary about all of these people, he thought with wonder. The look was fleeting and The Major grew fierce again. "Hamel, you find somewhere safe for Sheppard. His team will look after him, but he's _got_ to make it until his ride shows up. He's the only one who..." his voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. "I'll send my boys home, and -with your leave - I'll stay around and help with what I can. You're going to need to get your colors in line quickly and your streets under control even faster."

"I know that," Hamel snapped, then leveled a glare. "You can stay. Just send _her_ back to Red."

"Tony..." Reema's voice was angry and pleading all at once.

"He's right, Reema. You should probably go with the boys to the command building. I'll be back before morning."

"But what if Sheppard..."

"Go, Reema. I'll be back. I promise. Kennon! Take her, will you?"

Reema's brother nodded soberly, realizing that his family had just been banished from their Clan. But he took his sister's hand and pulled her towards the Eastern road. She straightened her shoulders and walked away, her steps stiff.

Hamel was very busy the next hour. The Major sent his clan home, true to his word, and then quietly advised Hamel as he picked Seconds and encouraged his people to keep the streets quiet for the rest of the night. By tomorrow, he intended to start that patrolling thing that Red had initiated on their streets. He was shocked time and time again when the boys simply did as he asked, or at least left without causing trouble. He began to realized that they were as weary of the violence and constant fear as he was and desperate for anyone to step forward and give them an excuse to simply...be. For one night at least. Hamel knew there'd be trouble soon enough - one can't fight a century of conditioning in a single night - but for now, they looked to Hamel and he was...happy. Happier than he'd been in years.

As one hour slipped into two, and two stretched into three, he occasionally let his thoughts drift to Sheppard. He'd sent the man and his friends back to his apartment to wait for their "ride", whatever that was. In his heart, Hamel knew that Sheppard had already crossed the big angle, and was just waiting to fall off the other side. When Ronon, Sheppard's second, appeared just as the early morning sun was brightening the thick clouds in the east, Hamel wasn't surprised.

"Hamel!" Ronon's voice was angry, tense - the voice of a desperate friend. "Sheppard needs you. The pain..."

"I'm coming."

He finished his last set of instructions and sent the last group of boys back to their cold rooms and followed the impatient man through the streets. It wasn't until he'd turned the last corner that Hamel realized he'd changed his dance. Instead of wary precaution, he danced as if...there was no fear. As if it was normal to walk down the street without expecting death's angle at every corner. It was slightly unnerving and he quickly attributed the feeling to fatigue and the dangerous bulky man he was following.

A blast of heat washed over him when he stepped over the threshold into his apartment. Hamel took a moment to hang up his coat and wash his hands in the cold water of his sink. Sometimes, friends in mourning were as dangerous as enemies. He somehow expected Sheppard's people to handle themselves well and he wasn't disappointed, but the frantic pacing of the men, and the tense hovering of the woman belied their anguish. When Hamel approached the bed, he allowed himself the privilege of sharing it. The tough, old core of his soul had melted just a bit in Sheppard's presence.

"How long has he been feeling it?" Hamel asked, his voice gruff with unshed emotion.

Sheppard lay curled in a tight ball on the cot. The twisted blankets underneath him were soaked with sweat and he was burying his face in a pile of towels that had been placed under his head as he writhed and groaned softly. He was stripped to the waist, fresh bandages on his forearm and chest. Despite the heat in the room and the thick sheen of perspiration, he was shivering and his teeth were chattering.

"His fever has been rising steadily since we left the crossroads. He slept quietly for nearly two hours, but has grown increasingly restless in the past hour."

Sheppard thrashed weakly and yelped some fevered nonsense, distracting Teyla from her answer. She ignored Hamel until Sheppard stilled enough for her to return the cool cloth that had slipped off his head. "He is delirious more often than lucid," she added, her voice soft with worry.

He nodded and tugged his chair over opposite Sheppard's face. He was tired. Something jabbed him when he bent to sit, and he shoved his hand in his pocket to yank out the small knife that had twisted up and jibbed him. It was the knife he'd just finished balancing this evening - last night. He flipped it once, then flung it angrily across the room to lodge, blade first, smack in the middle of the frame above the door to his room. Just where he'd intended it to go. Ronon and Rodney-the-loud-one looked startled, then Ronon nodded in grudging respect. This time when he sat, Hamel leaned close and held Sheppard's face until his eyes fluttered open at the gentle touch.

"You ready?" he asked softly, the question for Sheppard alone. Hamel waited, lightly touching the surface of the man's mind until Sheppard gathered his bearings and Hamel saw understanding in the depths. Understanding immediately followed by defiance.

"No. No...no, no, no..." Sheppard whispered. Hamel wasn't sure if he'd really spoken or if the words were shared mind to mind. "A...little...a little...less..."

Hamel retreated to gather his composure. He'd seen the pain, he knew the score - infection always won the throw. But Sheppard fought to live. Even now?

"A _little_ less pain," Hamel repeated, yet again caught in Sheppard's glare until he spoke the promise. No mercy numbing for this man. No surrender.

He concentrated and sought the pain. He almost writhed himself at the agony of it; almost found it too much to push away. In the end, Sheppard did most of it himself and sank into a quiet sleep leaving Hamel to bury his face in his hands with exhaustion.

Teyla handed him a cup of hot tea and then busied herself draping Sheppard with cool cloths who continued to shiver and burn at the same time. Hamel rested, watching Rodney and the woman increase their efforts to control the fever...the only thing they had any hope of fighting. Sheppard didn't rouse any more, even in delirious mutterings. His breath grew faster and Teyla's face grew darker each time she pressed her fingers into his neck. Ronon's pacing grew more aggressive, more frantic.

Early morning crawled into late morning. A single beam of sunlight escaped through the breaking clouds and pierced the single, grimy window of Hamel's room. Hamel scrubbed his face and turned red-rimmed, bleary eyes into the blinding brightness. Sometimes a whelp would hang on until daybreak, as if they knew that there was hope with the new light and wanted to take some of it with them across the big angle. Sheppard lay as still as death. Each time Hamel touched his mind to try to soothe a new spike of escaping pain there remained that spark of defiance, of hope, of endurance - but it was slipping. Hamel had seen it too often not to recognize the signs of a body overwhelmed.

He was just about to ask for permission to push the man over before the pain grew too fierce for even Hamel to master when all three friends in the room stiffened at once. All three raised a hand in unison to touch their ears, and Hamel was surprised to notice that all three wore small black devices, like tiny, shiny stones attached to a small wire. Ronon broke the silence with strange, terse words.

"Jumper three! Confirmed! We need immediate evacuation, medical emergency. Where are the nearest landing coordinates?" The Second paused, listening, and Hamel could hear a tiny buzz in the empty silence.

"Understood. I'll meet you there. Relay to Atlantis and have them prepare for an emergency medical team upon arrival."

Ronon dropped his hand and pointed at Teyla, "I'll meet the jumper and bring back a stretcher and med kit. Teyla, you stay and get him ready to move. McKay, you come with me."

The team responded to the orders with crisp activity and almost before Hamel had puzzled out the meaning within the bizarre words, Ronon and Rodney were gone. Teyla began stripping the cold cloths off Sheppard. "Help me wrap blankets around him," she demanded and Hamel leaped to obey as if she were Prime and he a whelpy yellow-band. They waited again once Teyla was satisfied by their efforts. She sat stiffly at the edge of the bed, clutching Sheppard's hand and murmuring encouragement.

"The jumper is here, John. You'll be home soon. Hang in there, John. Carson will take care of you, just hang on..." and the like.

When Ronon returned, he was laden with a bag on long straps, Rodney was carrying a thin set of poles, and another man was with them. It was this other man that surprised Hamel the most. His hair was short like Sheppard's, but he was wearing an elaborate vest with pockets and a weapon like Sheppard's strapped to his hip in easy reach and prominent display. He was undoubtedly another of "Sheppard's men."

The new man and Teyla tore open strange bags and tubes and needles from the kit that Ronon had carried. Hamel was drawn into the effort to move Sheppard from the cot to the poles which turned out to be a bed with handles for carrying. Almost before he realized what was happening, the group was opening the door and heading out into the streets.

"Wait!" he yelped, thrown by the abruptness of it all. He'd come home this morning to watch a man die, to soothe and honor him over the edge. Now they were about to walk out as suddenly as they'd walked into his life. Ronon paused from the front of the stretcher that Sheppard lay on, bundled in blankets, the strange tubes twisting out towards the bag of water on his chest.

"What?" Ronon asked, sounding impatient.

"Where are you going?"

Teyla touched his arm with a gentle squeeze. "We are returning to our home. Our ship will take us through the Ring of the Ancestors. We have advanced medical facilities that will care for John."

"I believe you," Hamel breathed, realizing he _did_ as he spoke the words - and oh the implications of that! Wraith Queens indeed! He drew himself straight, lifted his chin. "Tell Sheppard when you get there that...The Black Prime thanks him for his..." he paused. How did one find a word for the gift of courage and example he'd given Hamel. He shrugged, giving up. "Tell him I accept his yield."

"About time..." came a very soft answer and Hamel grinned. Sheppard's eyes were mere slits, but they were open and glittered with life. He clapped the blanketed man on the shoulder.

"I hope we meet again, friend Prime of Atlantis. We have much to learn from your clan."

"Where's...Cassini?"

Hamel thought for a long moment. "No one around here by that name, anymore," he said at last. "Your man, Cassini, died six months ago on the borders."

Sheppard's look was thoughtful in a weary sort of way. At last, he just nodded, closed his eyes again and gasped softly. The group exchanged worried looks and hustled away. Hamel watched them until they turned down a side street and he was alone in his quiet, empty alley door. Yesterday, once daylight quieted the streets and the civilians - to borrow Sheppard's word - peeked out for a few hours of peace, Hamel would have drawn the curtains and brooded within the darkness of his room.

Today, there was too much to do. He wandered inside, grabbed his coat and left again, planning to find his Seconds and prepare for tonight. He closed the door behind him and found his dance as he moved through the streets. Great shadows of dark and light chased him as he walked, the clouds soaking up then releasing the sun in a dance of their own.

The knife was left behind.

* * *

**10 Days Later:**

"Hey! Carson letting you work?"

Ronon bounded through the inner door of the infirmary to plop with a happy bounce on the foot of Sheppard's bed. The laptop John had balanced on his knees wobbled. Ronon snatched for the corner before it slid off onto the floor, then sat for a moment, grinning.

Sheppard had had a rough go of it. First had been the hours of surgery to sew up the hole in his belly. Then had come the hours of uncertainty as Sheppard battled fever and the massive infection that had taken hold during the time they'd waited on Hamel's planet. Words like _peritonitis _and _septic shock_ and _Gastrointestinal perforation _were used by Carson to explain stuff. Ronon just knew that Sheppard had crawled to within an inch of death before his stubborn son-of-a-stanga friend had turned the corner and crawled the hell back out.

"I _was_ working," Sheppard sighed.

Even ten days later, he was weak and still too pale for Ronon's liking. Sheppard knew it, too, and had grown frustrated over the past couple of days. He was especially grumpy when anyone else got too cheerful around him. This time Ronon ignored the glower that was settling onto Sheppard's face.

"Too bad. I brought you something, but if you'd rather _work..." _He shrugged with exaggerated carelessness.

"Well...what is it?"

Ronon fought not to grin at the curiosity that Sheppard was trying hard to conceal. He leaned closer and looked around as if worried about eavesdroppers, "Shouldn't really give it to you while you're still hanging out in here. Bit too dangerous. Carson would probably have my hair..."

He definitely had Sheppard's attention now, and his friend grinned, no longer even trying not to be interested.

"Come on, give it up."

"No, on second thought, I'd probably better not risk it." He slapped his thighs and stood up as if to go.

"Dammit Specialist, cough it up!" Sheppard snapped, the glower, and then some, returning with full force. Ronon laughed long and loud. He reached into his pocket and handed over the small knife he'd brought. Sheppard took it, studied it for a minute.

"It's a knife."

"It's from Hamel."

"Oh yeah?"

"Just got back. He sends his best...and the knife. He said 'That noisy angle banger of Sheppard's might be _efficient_, but it sure isn't elegant'." Sheppard just raised an eyebrow and Ronon shrugged. "He said that the trick with knife throwing is in the balance. He crafts the haft of all his knives by hand. He's known for his skill in all the clans."

Ronon took the knife back and demonstrated with a flip or two in passable imitation. Then with a last mischievous look around, he flung the knife towards a shelving unit stacked with paper goods. The blade sank into a roll of toilet paper and stuck.

"Sweet!" Sheppard exclaimed, "Let me try."

Ronon chuckled and retrieved the knife. "I was aiming for the chair."

Sheppard took it from him eagerly, shoved the laptop off his legs and gave it a flip as Ronon had done. The knife wobbled, Sheppard juggled it for a second before it stuck in the blankets on his lap.

"Ouch."

"Yeah, me too. Hamel said to start by just tossing it with one hand to get the feel. I'll bring you a target tomorrow to prop up on the wall."

Sheppard make a couple more tosses, with much more success this time, then sank heavily into his pillows, satisfied for now.

"Thanks. How's Hamel getting along?"

"OK. It's a tough place, but he really loves those kids, you know? He'll figure it out."

There was a comfortable silence. Sheppard studied the knife a little, then folded his hands behind his head. His expression went serious.

"How'd it go with Cassini?"

Ronon sat back down on the bed, folded his hands. "He doesn't want to leave, John. I talked to him again like you asked, tried to get him to come in on his own. He's convinced he'll get shipped back to Earth if he does."

"Yeah, well, he's probably right about that."

"Hamel vouched for him, too. Says he's been a big help. He didn't take Prime to prop himself up. He really thinks he's making a difference."

Ronon watched Sheppard thinking it through. The Earth Military was stricter than on Sateda. On Sateda you proved yourself by the results you got. And if you didn't want to fight any more, they didn't want you either. But Ronon knew that Sheppard had to answer to a set of rules that didn't always bend the way Ronon expected them to. He'd been surprised and touched as hell when Sheppard came for him on Sateda the second time he'd been caught and released as a runner. Like Teyla, he'd assumed that his superiors would prevent Earth resources being "wasted" on outsiders.

Sheppard sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Does he know the score? I can recommend we continue trade and contact with Hamel's people, but...if things go sideways or if Atlantis gets preoccupied with other matters...he'd be on his own for good."

Ronon looked at his hands, feeling again the flush of gratitude for his friend's willingness to clash with his own chain of command for the good of a man or woman under him. Hamel had confided to him that Cassini believed Sheppard was the only commander he'd known who would understand, who would make the effort to understand. The Earth men and women lived by good rules, but sometimes they were still wrong.

"He understands. He's gonna have a kid with Reema in a few months. He understands."

Sheppard groaned and closed his eyes. "I'm gonna catch hell for this," he muttered. Ronon grinned.

"It was bound to come up, sooner or later. People meet, fall in love. Sometimes it doesn't matter what world you came from."

"You're a hopeless romantic."

Ronon guffawed, slapped his friend on the leg, then rose.

"You know I can't just leave him there?!"

"You'll figure it out."

Sheppard snorted then coughed with a wince. He'd also beaten a mild case of pneumonia, Ronon remembered. With another surge of affection, Ronon ruffled Sheppard's hair (earning a disgusted swat) more pleased than he could express that his friend was simply alive.

"Catch you later, Sheppard. Rest up."

"Like I do anything else," he complained in reply. The glower was returning and Ronon could only chortle. Just before he left the room, he spared one more glance back. Sheppard was still sprawled against his pillows, probably asleep already. The first few times Ronon had visited once Sheppard was waking up and talking, he'd doze off after only a few minutes of conversation. The first few _days_, he'd lain in frightening stillness, too sick to even breathe on his own.

"He'll figure it out," Ronon said to himself, confident in his friend's strength and will to live.

* * *

John dozed for a little, then found that his brain was too restless to get any satisfactory sleeping done. He fussed with the bed for a bit and hauled his laptop back up on his legs. He'd been tepidly working on his mission report, trying to remember what had happened and trying not to all at the same time. It was a lot harder to type "and then I got stabbed" than he'd expected, even in the carefully formal language of report style. He still felt a surge of frustration each time he brushed up against that moment that had thrown the mission sideways with a vicious shove.

Teyla had helped a little. He'd read her report to help himself remember what days of illness and mind-numbing drugs had blurred. She'd praised John for his quick response to Salma's "overwhelming and formidable" attack. _Response?_ He snorted again to himself. He'd been flying on pure adrenaline and that _something_ inside of him that slipped out of his control in a life or death struggle. It was the _something _that allowed him to slit a man's throat or shove a knife into a kid's heart when the human part of him was vomiting in horror. He usually suffered a few nights of cold sweats and nightmares as he fought to wrestle that something back to civilized levels, but it was always there. He'd had to learn to live with it since the first time he'd realized he was a man who would kill to stay alive.

He looked at the screen again and slowly gathered his thoughts to begin typing. Eventually the words flowed and time passed more quickly than he expected.

John paused again when it came time to report on Cassini. He thought for a long time. He looked up Cassini's dossier and next of kin and thought some more. The SGC regs were pretty clear. He was supposed to haul Cassini back. He would catch hell if they found out he knew where Cassini was and wasn't doing anything about it. At long last he typed one more sentence, filed the report and closed his computer.

When he lay down again, he was exhausted and then disgusted that merely typing had drained him so low. Before he drifted off he studied Hamel's knife for a while longer. As unskilled as he was, he could still feel the perfect balance of the little blade. John was still pissed at the man. If Hamel had just stepped up _before_ the whole little Dashal drama, the kid wouldn't have had to die. But Hamel had found himself in the end, he supposed. And the Black Clan was better for it he was certain.

He laid the knife on his bedside table and felt the tug of sleep pulling him in. He'd wrestle with the _something_ soon, he knew, but for now, it let him alone. Life wasn't about balance, he thought. Life was wobbly and unpredictable and flew off in crazy, often painful, directions. Maybe what Hamel had figured out was that balance might a good _goal_, but that the fun of it was in managing the wobble.

Life on Atlantis was as crazy as it got. And John would be there to go where throw took him.

_A/N: Thanks for reading!_


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